Tiger by the tail
by Ryxl
Summary: Somewhere far from Azeroth and Outland, the universe proves that sometimes, you find what you're looking for only when you stop looking. AU, post-game, and no I'm not telling you who he is. You'll figure it out soon enough. In progress.
1. Someone like me

Author's note: This is an AU that split from canon around the time of the Wrathgate. The story takes place some 15 years after the fall of the Lich King and on a different world entirely. I promise, things will get explained in later chapters. Obligatory disclaimer, Blizzard owns everything that's foreign to the world this story takes place on.

* * *

He circles around her, boots clicking against the polished stone floor. She holds very still as he examines her from every angle, knowing that his eyes see more than can be seen.

"Joshua's tame demon. Why did you come here?"

She licks her lips, eyes still glued to the floor. "I had to see you."

A pause as he comes back around to the front and stands there, arms crossed, the fingers of one hand tapping on the opposite elbow. Her gaze is drawn to his fingernails, which are immaculately clean and manicured. "And what is that you see?"

"Someone I can serve. Someone I can devote my life to." Greatly daring, she raises her head to meet his eyes. "Someone like me."

His eyes narrow, the shadows of green flames that do not exist flaring briefly. "Explain."

The growl rolls around her, making her heart beat faster. She knows she should be afraid; he is not known for his kindness or mercy. But somehow, all that danger says to her is _Yes! Yes!_ and she knows that she would walk through fire for him.

"Your boots," she says softly. "No pair of boots in the world will ever sound against the floor like yours do." A mental relaxing; letting go of one layer. She stamps her foot and lets the sound ring out. "...except mine."

She can feel his shock. It ripples out in silent waves.

"Who are you?" Not a growl this time, his voice is a whisper that slides into her soul.

"Jentessa, daughter of dreadlord Mal'Ganis." She knows the name will mean nothing to him, but the word she used does.

"Dreadlord." He glowers at her, the shadow of horns looming overhead. "Why did you come here, to this world?"

"I was looking for a place where my family couldn't find me." The old pain wells up and she knows she looks like a little girl, but she doesn't care. "I had to get away. They all think I'm a freak anyway. None of them care about me."

_Freak_. It hangs in the air between them. Her cheeks are wet, another sign of her dysfunctionality. The silence stretches, possibility balancing on a hypothetical knife's edge.

"...why did you come here?" He is no longer speaking the language of the world. She hasn't been speaking it since she gave her name.

Another layer gone; her eyes glow dimly through the veils that remain, green reflecting on the tears that still flow. "I told you - I had to see you."

Through the expensive and exquisitely tailored suit, she can dimly see whorls of green against purple. His resolve wavers along with the illusion, the walls he'd erected so long ago trembling under her vulnerable onslaught.

"Do you know who you are speaking to?" He is ready to strike her down with his reputation, with his past, but disbelief leaves the threat hollow and all she hears is, _Yes. Yes._

"The one I want to serve until the end of my days," she says as her heart yearns towards him, feeling as though it will rip itself free from her chest and fling itself at his feet in adoration.

"Do you comprehend the things I have done?"

Too late, he tries to bring the walls back up. The illusions return, but she has seen through them and steps fearlessly inside his defenses. Her hooves click against the stone as she kneels at his feet, and she can see the claws behind the manicure.

"I don't care," she whispers, taking one hand in hers and bringing it up to her cheek. He flinches as the pads of his fingers brush against her skin, but does not pull away. After a trembling moment, they spread as though drinking in the touch.

Neither of them says a word; they both hear _Yes! Yes!_ and it is enough.


	2. Joshua waits and remembers

Outside the ornate double doors, Joshua paces. The guards, said to be loyal until death, ignore him. Inside, the half-demon girl he has taken into his home is taking her life into her hands. The new lord of this world - or at least, this _part_ of this world, although Joshua has no doubts the other regions will fall in line eventually - has a reputation for casual cruelty that deters the masses from asking too many questions, but Joshua could not afford ignorance. Not when Tessa's nature has never been secret.

He remembers the night he was awakened by a palpable sense of _waiting_. Until that moment, he had just taken it on faith when his "pet demon" blithely informed him that she'd warded the house...the section...the region...the world. She was just a teenager, how could she have that kind of power, half-demon or no? But that night, as he left his bedroom to find her standing in the middle of their chambers, he remembered the aura of predatory control that had surrounded her when she first arrived. She'd terrified him at the time, casually plucking the antique demon-control amulet from his unresisting fingers and tossing it over her shoulder. Since then, her bubbly nature had buried the memory of that first meeting...but that night he'd shivered seeing her listening so intently to something he couldn't hear.

Joshua's fingers close around the amulet now. Although he knows it has no power over Tessa, it is the only link he has to her now and he prays to nameless gods that when the doors open, it will not herald his death following hers. That first night, she'd had an aura of power about her and he could believe that she had, indeed, placed magical wards around the entire world. He'd stood in silence, watching her listen, until dawn came and his parents began to stir. The only words she spoke in those hours were chilling: 'Something's coming'.

Three days later, an unremarkable story from across the world reported unusual activity in the stronghold of some petty tyrant; no one was sure what happened, but shots were fired and there were bodies. The next report came after a month: the petty tyrant was on the move, absorbing the villages nearby and moving on to attack his neighbors. No one expected any more than that; that region was wracked with squabbles for territory and the borders rarely changed. This time was different. The tyrant, now a warlord, took out each of his rivals in turn while the world scratched its collective head - and Tessa glared holes into the news screen. When the warlord had secured the region, the most chilling story yet reached them: he had slaughtered his advisers and generals, and appointed new ones from the conquered territories. After that, Joshua found his ward not-sleeping more often than not, doing things he couldn't understand when she tried to explain and couldn't see when she tried to show him. When morning came, she laid aside her cold, controlled fury and was the cheerful girl he and his parents were used to, but at night...

He'd started quietly researching the warlord, combing questionable sources for any information. When he uncovered the hushed rumor about the warlord summoning a demon, the things Tessa had told him made more sense. During the day, it hardly seemed likely that she could be waging a cutthroat magical war at night. She still smiled, still laughed, still read the silly teen romance novels his mother bought her and sang the bouncy pop songs she preferred. As weeks became months, he took to sitting with her at least a portion of the night, watching her work with the tip of her nozzled power cable clenched between her teeth like a cigar, listening to the occasional muttered comment. The news stories continued to roll in as the warlord conquered a second region, then a third - and set his sights on the one Joshua lived in.

The neighbors started talking, then, as did his co-workers. Didn't Josh have a tame demon? Couldn't she be commanded to do anything? No, he told them. He was no warlord, he wouldn't know what to tell her to do. Did they want to bring the warlord's wrath on themselves quicker? By that time, the other stories were filtering in. The warlord punished those who displeased him, usually with death. Their replacements served with terrified fervor. Those who muttered loudest about a revolt often were found dead in the morning. When the warlord finally made his way to the region capital, the government surrendered and swore loyalty almost before the demand came. It cut down the casualties significantly. The Warlord casually executed the former Prime Minister and took his quarters, clearly intending to stay a while to secure his newest acquisition.

That's when Tessa went completely insane. Joshua had been expecting her to be frothing with rage, but that night as her mind ranged out and followed trails he couldn't sense, her demeanor changed. She went utterly still, eyes wide, and stopped breathing for so long that he dared to call her name. She shook her head, blinked, and fixed him with an intent stare that was a little wild around the eyes. "I have to see him," was all she said. He begged and pleased, reasoned and argued. Was she mad? Did she know what she was doing? He'd kill her, it was suicide. Each attempt was met with that same unsettling gaze and the words 'I have to see him'. Not even the arrival of day, and the tears of her adoptive grandmother, would sway her. When she threatened to walk into the section reserved for the highest members of government and find him herself, Joshua sighed and agreed to do what he could to set up a meeting.

In truth, he didn't expect the response he got. Tessa tagged along as he went to his boss, then his boss's boss, and was passed up the rungs of governmental ladder like a hot potato or a cursed penny. Each time, he repeated his request: a message sent to their new lord, that he and his tame demon wished a private audience. Each time, the government official started to scoff, then caught the look on Tessa's face, paled, and passed them on to his superior. It wasn't that threatening a look, Joshua thought as they waited for yet another official to get out of his meeting. She actually looked rather serene, like one of the ancient images of saints receiving divine messages. But when this latest official - Minister of Finance or somesuch - saw her, he actually shook and sweated. The runner left minutes later and returned just as fast. The Warlord would see them.

As it turned out, the Warlord would see _her_. Joshua was left standing outside the doors to the vaulted audience chamber (had it been a throne room in years past?) with the guards who had also been ordered out, leaving their Lord and the half-demon alone inside.

Joshua pauses in his pacing and listened, but there are no screams. The echoes of his footsteps die, and there is silence for half a minute before an order cracks through the air and Joshua finds himself being roughly escorted inside. He's afraid of what he'll see, but no - Tessa is alive. Their Lord has her on her knees, one hand pulling her head back by her hair while he snaps the fingers of the other and imperiously demands her control amulet. Joshua looks his Lord over as he hands over the pendant; it is the first time he has seen the man in person, and something seems off. The Lord is tall and imposing, powerfully built but impeccably groomed and clothed. His dark hair is cut short, as his neatly-trimmed beard, and his eyes are an incongruously warm brown as they rake Joshua with disdain and impatience. He drops the amulet into the Lord's manicured hand and searches Tessa's face briefly, but her attention is on the man whose feet she kneels at and her face shines with joy. Joshua is dismissed with curt thanks, empty words praising his loyalty and promising nebulous reward for delivering a teenage girl to an uncertain fate. Tessa's eyes flick to him briefly, and she gives him as encouraging a smile as she can with her head bent back like that.

As he returns home, he ponders his Lord and finally realizes what it was that seemed wrong. He's seen Tessa's true form: the horns, the wings, the hooves and talons and fangs. The veils and illusions she uses to maintain the mostly-human shape are perfect enough that her bare feet make no sound on stone floors, even though he knows her hooves are clicking against the hard surface. That knowledge is a kind of subliminal itch that he's gotten so used to that he doesn't notice it anymore - but his Lord causes the same kind of itch.

When night comes, Joshua sits alone in the center of his family's chambers, wondering what his pseudo-niece has gotten herself into.


	3. He was not prepared for that answer

The door to the moderately luxurious suite he has ordered her confined to opens forcefully enough to impact the wall, and closes just as forcefully behind him. He stands there a moment, radiating fury, but she looks thrilled rather than frightened. She is kneeling in the same spot she was standing in when he last saw her, when he ordered her to stay there until he came for her next. This only infuriates him more, and his wrath washes against her like the waves of an unfriendly ocean.

"So," he hisses, "you thought to mock me."

She jerks as if struck. "Never!"

He pauses. The discordant echo he is accustomed to hearing when he is lied to is…absent. As it was when she threw herself on his mercy and declared that she wished to serve him. The moment passes and his fury, renewed, beats down upon her.

"Then explain to me how it is that this amulet-" and he lets it dangle in front of her, "-has no magical properties."

She watches the familiar object sway before her as the growl fades into silence. It takes her a moment to collect enough thought-fragments to determine that it is her obedience which has enraged him, and why. She raises her eyes to his calmly. "The amulet didn't command me; you did."

That gives him pause. It took him half a day to confirm that this suite had been fitted with a monitoring system, locate the screen that showed his new prize, and have it moved to a more convenient location so that his guards could keep an eye on her. She has stayed in the same spot since he left her there, whether standing or kneeling as she is now. He'd been pleased with the effectiveness of the amulet Joshua had surrendered, but there was no magic in the thing – and now that demonic sense which had never been wrong about others attempting to deceive him was silent. Was she telling the truth? Or had she found a better way to lie?

"And did your former master command such _obedience_ from you as well?"

She changes position, rocks back from kneeling to sitting with her arms around her knees. He still sounds as if he would tear the answer from her flesh, but he's not as angry as he seems. "Joshua never commanded me," she says with a shrug. "He only pretends to use the amulet so that people aren't frightened of me. I needed someone to teach me how this world works, but he's been…kind to me." It stings her pride to be so vulnerable before him, but it negates some of his rage so she doesn't try to hide anything from him. "He made me part of his family."

Despite himself, he can feel the anger slipping away. It was a cunning strategy; not one he could have pulled off, but it clearly worked well for her. It occurs to him suddenly that he's been yelling at a child, and had been contemplating the torturous interrogation of a man who, if her words are true, knowingly welcomed a _demon_ into his home and was _kind_ to her.

"Made you part of his family," he repeats slowly, "where your own family was…not kind?" Habit gives the words a sarcastic edge.

Her eyes drop. "My mother conceived me as a weapon against my father, and then used me as a bargaining chip to get what she wanted. My father left me to be raised by his mother, who doted on me until she realized I didn't inherit his power, and then barely tolerated me. My uncles are all dead or in the Legion, but they left behind sons who bullied me while my grandmother watched. My aunts don't care about one weak little half-breed, for the most part. I got pity from some, but…" she shrugs. "They all think I'm worthless, and they're probably right. I inherited my father's skill, but not his strength." She looks up at him again, and he is startled by the mingled admiration and self-loathing on her face. "I used to think skill could make up for raw power, but…" she blinks, and a few tears creep down her cheeks. "I couldn't stop you, so I guess that proves me wrong."

The fact that she doesn't sound resentful is one more thing he didn't expect, and makes him slightly uncomfortable with how he's been treating her. Some of the attacks she threw at him were impressively complex for the small amount of power that had backed them, and he'd had to break them through sheer strength because he was too impatient to unravel them, or simply couldn't figure out how to do so.

"Raw power is no substitute for true strength," he finds himself saying, the words cutting their way out of him from where he'd locked those memories away, tangled emotions bleeding out in their wake.

She sniffles a bit. "I still wish I could come close to commanding even a quarter of your power, but I'll never be that good. I'm not strong enough to inherit my father's place or make one of my own, so I came here and I thought I could at least defend it…but I can't even do that."

Anger boils out of him again, but it's not her that it's directed towards. It's the same anger that's been a part of him for so long that he can't even trace the track it's worn into his mind. It pulses, flows within him like the beat of his blood, inseparable, integral to him. "Stop that," he snaps, and is rewarded with a look of wondering admiration on her teary face. He thrusts the amulet out again. "You will maintain the charade that this holds control over you. You will remain here – in these quarters – until I return, and you will not attempt to leave. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my Lord."

Her face reflects the rapt devotion in her voice and he leaves as quickly as he arrived.


	4. Truth or death

When Levy calls Joshua up to his office, he initially thinks he's going to get fired. He's been slacking at work the last two days, shaken by the sudden absence of his ward and the revelation of his Lord's nature. On his way up, however, he realizes that a firing wouldn't make his boss sound so…nervous. When he gets there, the presence of the Lord's no-nonsense guards tell him that he's either not going to get fired, or it's going to be much, much worse.

The guards escort Joshua to a small, soundproofed room where the Lord himself is waiting. When the door has closed the guards securely outside, the immaculately groomed man turns and regards Joshua with an intent scrutiny. The control amulet is around his neck and Joshua eyes it warily, wondering if such a dangerous man has missed the lack of significance it has.

"I see you looking at the amulet," the Lord says in a tone that warns of very bad things yet to come. "Tell me about it."

Joshua swallows. "It…has no power over Tessa," he says. When no horrible death is forthcoming, he clears his throat and continues. "It used to have some power – it was the ward key for the Third Gate Cavern back in the day, passed down from my grandfather. When Tessa came through, it started lighting up, so I went to check it out and found her there, looking around. She plucked it out of my hand and broke its enchantment and then threw it over her shoulder, but then she changed her mind and handed it back to me. She said she needed someone to show her the ins and outs of this world, and it may as well be me. So we pretended that she was under my control. I helped-" he pauses, again wondering how much his Lord knows, but decides that whatever the punishment for truth is, it has to be better than the punishment the Lord prefers handing out for lies.

"-I helped her pick out a mostly-human disguise that would make it clear she was a demon without being demonic enough that people would fear her. I brought her home and taught her how to be a normal girl."

The Lord's eyes narrow slightly and his weight shifts back. "Wisely said," he growls. "If you had lied to me, I would have killed you myself."

"I know," Joshua says quietly. "I also know that you might still kill me for what I know, to make sure no one else knows, even though I give my word that I haven't told anyone."

"And what, pray tell, is that?" The menace in his voice earlier is nothing compared to what the Lord's tone holds now.

Joshua takes a deep breath, certain he is signing his own death sentence. "The night you arrived, Tessa felt it. I didn't put everything together until later, but it's obvious if you know what to look for." He smiles crookedly. "Your disguise isn't quite as good as hers, but it's very good. I wouldn't have known if I hadn't been living with Tessa."

There is silence for a long moment. Joshua thinks nervously about the generals and advisers found torn apart – by wild animals, the news reported, to judge by the claw marks. He knows better.

"She says you were kind to her. Why." It's less a question than a demand for information.

Joshua shrugs. "Being a demon doesn't preclude being worthy of kindness or respect."

The silence this time has a much different feel to it.

"I imagine that your routine is emptier now that I have taken…command…of your demon," the Lord says in a falsely-light tone. "Whatever petty role you play here can't be satisfying such a void. Furthermore, a man of your intelligence and…discretion…is wasted in this-" he waves one manicured hand in a gesture that dismisses the entire office.

"My Lord?" Joshua asks blankly. The change of topic has confused him greatly.

The neatly-trimmed beard parts for a smile that looks more like a baring of teeth which, to be sure, are even and pearly-white, but unnerving none the less. "I promised you a reward, Joshua. Surely your menial position is not what you had hoped to do for the rest of your life. What is it that you want to spend your days doing? Name it. If the position exists, I'll kill whoever holds it and give it to you. If it does not, I'll create it."

Frantically aware of the weight of his Lord's attention, Joshua tries to think. "Research!" he blurts out. "That is – I've always loved digging into the old stories, the myths. Hunting down scraps of information and piecing facts together."

"Hmm." One manicured hand scratches at the short beard. "And whoever I place in charge of such potentially dangerous information would indeed need to be someone whose discretion is beyond question. Does she know?"

"Um…does who know what, my Lord?"

"Tessa." He pauses to savor the sounds; it is the first time her name has left his lips. "Does she know that you are aware of…?" For just an instant, he drops the veils and lets Joshua glimpse him as he truly is.

"No, my Lord," Joshua says, remarkably calm in the face of such a deadly display of trust. "I didn't realize it until-" _Until you took her._ "-until after her control amulet was in your possession."

The scrutiny is back. Joshua begins to sweat, although he doesn't know what he's done or said this time.

"Return home. My men will be there shortly to assist you in packing up your household; you will be moved to better quarters in the reigning district by tomorrow. We will meet again in two days to discuss the duties of your new position."

"Yes, my Lord." Joshua bows and turns to go.

"Oh, and one more thing." Joshua freezes, suddenly terrified, one hand on the doorknob. "Tessa's belongings – make sure they are packed separately. They will be delivered to her apartment ahead of your move."

"I'll see to it myself, Lord."

This time, Joshua is allowed to flee.


	5. You should have guessed him by now

When he comes for her next, she is belly-down on a couch, deep in some torrid trashy romance with the copper tip of her special cable in the corner of her mouth. It's been two days since her things were wordlessly dumped just inside the door of her gilded cage, three since he last visited his acquisition, five since he gripped her hair in a hand that was not clawed and demanded her control amulet from Joshua. He had hoped to watch her unnoticed, to observe his tiger-by-the-tail and judge her, but she turned to him with a brilliant, fearless smile as soon as he slipped inside the door.

"What are you doing?" The words are harsher than he intended, covering confusion with the rage that simmers easily inside him. Her smile does not waver, and he wonders to himself why she is not intimidated by him.

"I was just having a snack..." She removes the copper nozzle from her mouth and sits up. It connects to an industrial electrical cord plugged into a wall. When his eyes finish tracing the path and return to her, she extends the nozzle in a wordless offer.

Confusion makes his brows draw together and he glowers at her. "You...eat..." The words trail off in disbelief.

She scrunches her nose in casual distaste. "There's not much flavor, but it's better than the way food sits. More efficient. Easier to process. Not as good as actual magic, but..."

Stiff, dark-gold curls bounce as she shrugs one shoulder, but he's not watching that. Her words have driven home the reality of his situation, an incongruous proof of truth. He could not have articulated the same ideas, but she has done it for him.

"You never tried it? What do you eat?"

The innocence of the question brings with it a jumble of sharp-edged memory: years of darkness, hunger that was never satisfied with crusts of bread or droughts of clear running water, handfuls of berries or even the lavish feasts he once indulged in. Years of dry heat, choked with ash and vile fumes that somehow eased the gnawing that food never filled. And most recently, an apathy towards the whole conundrum. He'd rather do without than fill himself with something that only makes him feel worse.

"You don't eat?" The shock and horror draw his eyes back to her face. The nozzle is extended again, more insistently, and the look of concern is overshadowed by a lilac tint to her skin that takes him off-guard.

"I have to wonder why you seem to be so concerned with my health." The memory of lilac concern keeps the growl out of his words, but they still retain their sharp edges. She hugs the nozzle to her chest, and he is reminded that although he is ancient, she is barely a child.

"I can't serve you if you've starved to death," she whispers, looking as though she wishes to fling herself at his feet again and rejoice in the slightest touch of his fingertips against her skin.

"You declared yourself my enemy and then delivered yourself to me and declared your loyalty. You understand that I cannot trust you to have my best interests at heart." There is no malice in the words, only a dry cynicism and the memory is a hissing female voice offering allegiance and troops, a gravelly male voice expressing gratitude, a vibrant, cultured voice filled with cold anger - and behind them, the barest hint of a voice so like his own...

She nods matter-of-factly, as though she understood his thoughts. "You've been betrayed before."

The language she has been speaking, the shape of the word, are an unintentional arrow that pierces deeper than he could have expected. _Betrayed. _A vortex of jagged thoughts previously quiescent leaps up to swallow him, sending him down an eternal corridor of anguish. All composure is shattered by that one word, and he is not aware of what he has let slip until she is pressed against his bare chest, frantic apologies spilling from her lips like the tears that once fell from silver eyes. Instinctively, he reaches to put his arms around her, reassure her that the pain will fade, that he will be okay, but he remembers that his fingers end in wicked claws now, and his arms jerk to a halt before he can accidentally hurt her. He freezes, arms awkwardly held away from her, uncertain as to what to do when his pain is causing her genuine distress, and then-

Hands. Her hands, where no hands had ever had the temerity to venture. Stroking, soothing motion calming the teeth of jagged memory, easing the pain, chasing the nightmares back into the darkness that spawned them. How had he never guessed that those ugly reminders of what he has become could be a source of...peace?

"You have very nice horns." The words are quiet, wistful, sliding into the silence without a single ripple of shock. She keeps stroking, caressing the heavy black curves, filling his mind with cool, soothing reassurance. She doesn't dare do more than gel the broken edges so that they don't cause more damage; his mind is a tangle of weeping sores and razor fragments and the wrong move will cause more damage than she could bear. Already, his pain slices into her, making her bite her lip until she draws blood, but the rhythm of her hands does not falter.

Once the last jagged edge has been swaddled, he gives a sigh and she regretfully withdraws both hands and mind. She can see that he won't trust her for a while, and she dared not change that, but the seed has been planted and she knows how to nurture it. He is still more relaxed than he has been in a very long time, unconcerned for the moment that he stands before her as he truly is, and she can't help but admire it. The blindfold gives her pause, but she dares not ask yet.

"...what?"

The delayed question doesn't faze her. "Your horns. They're much nicer than mine will ever be." She tilts her head, eying the appendages in question. "They could use some oil, though. Bring out their luster."

His eyes open slowly, green glow behind soft black cloth. Hers meet them fearlessly, her expression showing that she is aware of the depths of his pain, and it has not deterred her. Slowly, she relaxes as he has done until she stands before him as she truly is. Dimly, she can sense the turmoil that her appearance would cause him if all the broken bits weren't covered in protective gel. She waits, silent and vulnerable, for his judgment. His mind closes, a bit at a time, until it returns to the mismatched collection of thorned defenses it was on their first meeting. A part of her weeps to be rejected like that, but she knows that in order for him to open to her, she has to let him close her out. His veiled eyes weigh her, his fears against her actions, and one taloned hand creeps up to tentatively touch his horns.

"What kind of oil?" It is a victory, a concession, an acknowledgment, and a denial. Her answering smile makes his lips - so used to scowling - twitch upwards. Fragile as it is, her concern has planted a seed of hope in him that there could be someone in the universe who would not turn from him in horror. _Someone like me_, she said. It had been a long time since anyone had cared about him, and she was so _young_... Maybe, just maybe, this would become the one thing he did in his long life that didn't turn around and strike him down after he gave so much to do what he thought right.

There were ways to test loyalty. He would test her, ensure that she would not turn on him as so many others had. A thought stirred within him, skeletal within its grave of despair, clawing its way to life like the undead minions he once fought to destroy. Yes, he would test her, and if she passed - well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

She is describing the oil, and the cloth, all teenage admiration and awkwardness. The shadow of a smirk crosses his lips, and her words tumble to a halt as her breath catches. In the silence, he hears _Y__es. Yes_.


	6. And this is why it's marked AU

_He pauses at the door, human guise wrapped securely around him, and looks back at her over his shoulder. "I trust you will be all right until I return?" He tries to make it sound like a statement of fact, but fails. Behind his eyes, she can see the writhing knot of worry, guilt, and confusion._

She has replayed this memory countless times in the last few days. After the unexpected opportunity during the last visit, she didn't expect him to return anytime in the next handful of days, and he didn't disappoint. She spends most of her time listening to music playing softly as she pokes and prods at the snapshot she took of his mind while he was vulnerable, expanded so that she can see it from all angles and nudge the broken pieces to see how they move. So far, all she's been able to determine is that he's very, very broken and has likely been that way for a very long time. There's layers of damage that go beyond the quick model she has, and to all appearances, he's managed to beat the broken bits into a semblance of functionality – although it's not entirely stable.

With electricity to sustain her and no other responsibilities, she loses track of time. She sips at the power when she feels like it, naps when she's tired, and the puzzle of his mind nags at her. There's only so much she can do with a static model, and she wishes he'd return so that she can get a better look. It's been about five days, she thinks, since he was last here.

"What are you doing?"

Engrossed as she is, he managed to enter without her being aware and she meets his eyes guiltily over the top of the model that she is relieved to remember is a projection of her mind and visible only to her. A thought, and it is banished.

He glowers at her, human form fading away. "The guards say you've been poking at something no one can see. I'll ask again: what are you doing?"

"It's a kind of puzzle," she says meekly, her own disguise fading.

Another time, he would press for more information; there's a lot she's not telling him. But right now, he has other things on his mind. "Sit," he tells her shortly, pointing at random. She sits on the couch indicated, and he paces back and forth a bit, gathering his thoughts. "If you are going to serve me," he begins, "then you are going to know who and what you are serving."

She listens intently as he gives a remarkably cut-and-dried summary of his life. Some of it, she already knew from various classes, and her devotion grows even more intense as she realizes that he's not just any half-Nathrezim – he's _famous_. The majority of what he explains, however, is like a guided tour of his broken mind. Although his words are the bare facts, the thoughts that accompany them are rich in details, associations, and the tangled emotions she recognizes from the snapshot she's been staring at. The actual events become almost irrelevant to her compared to what effects they had on his mind, and she is very aware of how much it is costing him to tell her these things.

When he reaches the end of his sometimes-rambling explanation, he braces himself for the horror and revulsion he fully expects to see on her face. He couldn't bring himself to look at her as he laid out his sordid past, but he could feel her watching him intently. Now he faces her squarely, and is bewildered to see the expression of rapt adoration she wears. His first reaction is to snap at her, to lash out as he usually does, anger masking confusion – but he remembers her kneeling on the floor for two days because he commanded her to stay where she was until he returned.

"After hearing all of that," he asks quietly, "you still wish to serve me?"

She tilts her head to one side. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Most people get offended somewhere between 'turned into a demon' and 'served the Burning Legion'," he says dryly.

"I was raised Nathrezim," she says with a shrug. "Most of them see the Burning Legion as a viable means to the end of conquering worlds. As long as you have no plans to hand me over to Sargeras-" She pauses while he makes a sound of disdain. "-then it doesn't bother me that you served the Legion briefly. As for being half-demon…" Her voice trails off as her eyes follow the curve of his horns.

He smirks. "Would you like to oil them?"

Any coherent thoughts in her head are promptly scattered. "Oh, _yes_," she breathes, pulse racing as he smirks again and settles into a chair.

"Very well," he says, and she leaps for the oil and polishing rag. He is still smirking as she hesitantly steps forward, oiled cloth in one hand, and reaches for his right horn.

She didn't see it coming until it was too late; one moment she's about to live an adolescent fantasy, and the next, the smirk is gone and he's on his feet with a face like a thundercloud, her wrist gripped painfully tight in his clawed hand. His face, voice, every line of his body and the aura of power around him all speak eloquently of just how powerful he is and how easily he could kill her if he wanted – and he very much wants to, but first, "You know more than you're letting on. What is the _true_ reason you wish to serve me?"

He was expecting fear. Terror, maybe. Intimidation, certainly. He's done this before, and it has never failed to get the reaction he's looking for – until now. It is as though he'd been showing off in attempt to impress her, and succeeded wildly. She looks about to faint from ecstasy and is making adoring sounds. Rage boils up, spills over and he shakes her by her captive wrist. "I should kill you right now," he hisses.

Finally, she says something coherent, even if it is in a tone of sheer wonder. "It would be worth it, to be killed by someone so magnificent and powerful! Oh, oh! Is this what you looked like when you took the Black Temple? No wonder the Legion was afraid of you!"

For just an instant, all the rage is replaced with total confusion. He threatens to kill her, and she praises him for it? He shrugs it off; he'll deal with that later. Right now, it's not the tool he was expecting, but a useful tool none the less. "Tell me the true reason you wish to serve me," he growls, every bit as intimidating and furious as he can be. It works; like a switch has flipped somewhere, she stops near-swooning and starts talking.

"My mother is an orc named Ryxl Ironheart. She was conceived through fel magics designed to produce a child who would have the best traits of both parents and serve the Warchief with absolute loyalty. She is the Champion to Warchief Thrall, of the Horde. When she encountered my father, she was trying to recruit his minions to fight the Lich King." She pauses as a strange pang of guilt-laced pain flares in him, and is repressed. "My father tried to break her using every trick in the entire history of Nathrezim conquest, but she was able to shield her mind somehow, and nothing would break through it. Then she used the same spell that caused her conception, and got with his child – me. My father bargained with her and gave up all Nathrezim claim on Azeroth in return for her giving up all claim on the child. When the Lich King was finally defeated-" and she pauses again as vicious satisfaction radiates from him. "My father took the Lich King's broken remains and my-" the word she uses is Nathrezim, but she flicks the meaning of it at him and he understands the concept of an astral womb, an egg of sorts that her unborn self resides in until she has finished forming and hatches as an infant newly-born.

"I was supposed to be a Champion of the Burning Legion," she says softly, the pain of old taunts stinging. "But I didn't inherit my father's strength and I didn't inherit my mother's unbreakable mind. Sargeras was less than pleased with the report my father brought him, and he wound up fleeing the Legion and Sargeras's wrath. When I started approaching the age of consent, my grandmother began looking for a suitable man to marry me off to – that is, one who would be strong enough to hold my father's position in Nathrezim society, but weak enough for her to control. I left the night before I became of age." Her voice is full of bitterness now, and her eyes have dropped to his chest.

"I followed my mother's trail through the Twisting Nether. She wasn't happy to see me, and I didn't think she would have been, but she at least told me about my conception and hers. I'd always thought I was just a defective freak for not being able to do what she did, but she told me-" she pauses to swallow, and he can sense the nervousness in her. "-she told me that I couldn't do it because I…didn't have a 'warchief' to serve."

She's looking at the floor now, her arm limp and unresisting in his hand, her voice a fearful whisper – but she's still talking. He wonders why she is afraid _now_, when he's let the aura of painful death drop.

"My mother banished me from Azeroth on pain of death. She said that she was Thrall's Champion, and her son – my half-brother – was Thrall's child's Champion, and there was no other 'warchief' that she was willing to risk me…bonding to. So I left, and I came here, to a world that no other Nathrezim would come to because it had fought off an attempt to conquer it and I thought that here, I could just be myself and there would be no one to know that I should have been so much more…"

She closes her eyes now, looking like she's about to cry. He feels he should say something – hadn't he also felt the sting of banishment, of being faulted for not being what others thought he should be? – but words of comfort were never his forte.

"…but then _you_ came, and I couldn't stop you, and then…" He has to strain to hear her, now. "Then I _felt_ you for the first time, after you killed the Prime Minister, and I _knew_ that I'd found the one I would serve with absolute loyalty."

This fear, this trembling – yes, this is what he expected when he threatened to kill her. "Why are you so afraid _now_?" Too late, he realizes he's snapped at her again and attempts to gentle his voice. "What are you afraid of?"

She shudders, and now tears run unchecked from her closed eyes. "I'm afraid you'll reject me." The words sound drawn from her against her will, all misery and hopelessness. "You'll reject me because you're so powerful and awesome that anything I could do, you can probably do ten times better, so what would you need me for? So you'll reject me, and banish me because this is _your_ world now and I'll be _worthless_, and _useless_, and…"

Her voice breaks, and with it, something inside him breaks as well. A tug on her captive wrist brings her body within reach of his other arm and he snakes it around her and pulls her to his chest. _Someone like me._ What should he say? What _could_ he say? He never expected a Champion. He's not entirely sure what a Champion is supposed to do, but just knowing that the thought of not being able to serve him reduces her to tears-! It's as heady as it is unexpected. He tells himself that he's still going to test her loyalty because he's had too many turn against him, but the feel of her in his arms distracts him. Has anyone ever clung to him this way, even before the events that changed him? No, he doesn't recall ever being a pillar of strength like this before, although he wished more than once that he could be.

Tentatively, he strokes her hair with one hand, being mindful of the wicked talons. It is straight and black when she's not disguised, and falls midway down her back. Her shuddering eases somewhat, so he runs his fingers down her hair a second time, then a third, feeling as though he were smoothing away her inner turmoil. When she stirs against him, he moves his hands carefully to her shoulders and gently pushes her far enough away that he can meet her eyes.

"I accept your service," he says quietly. "My Champion." Ecstasy fills her face once again and he again dons the aura of power, even though he knows it does not frighten her. "But I will have no one in my service who is useless. When I return, I expect you to have prepared a report of your skills."

"Yes, my Lord!" Her voice is strong again, her breathing steady and even. Only the wetness on her cheeks remains to testify that she had been crying.

The word resonates between them. _Yes. Yes._


	7. Ambiguity is a marvelous weapon

It is barely six hours before he comes for her again, and an hour that most would not be awake at. He knows it is unfair of him, but what use is a test if the one being tested is forewarned? However, he is pleasantly surprised to discover that she is hunched over the desk with paper before her and the end of a pen in her mouth. As the door closes behind him, she starts and turns around.

"I'm not done yet!" The slightly-panicked fearful tone is exactly what he expected, but when she wilts and moans, "I've failed you," he drops the aura of command and fights back the urge to touch her, reassure her. That is a vulnerability he cannot allow himself. He has accepted her service, yes, but he does not yet trust her to be anything but a child with misplaced hero-worship.

She has attacked him before, and quite cleverly; he does not trust that she will not do so again. The memory of hands upon his horns rises, but he shoves it ruthlessly away. She is clever enough to pass as mostly-harmless, providing comfort in a moment of vulnerability in order to betray him the next time would not be beyond her. He refuses to even consider trusting her in any other respect until he is certain of her loyalty, and to that end…

"There is something that requires my attention. I will not be returning for several days." All true, as far as that goes. Ambiguity is a marvelous weapon against the possibility that she can hear lies the way he can. "Show me what you have so far," he commands.

She reluctantly holds the paper out. "It's in Nathrezim." The words manage to sound sheepish and apologetic at the same time.

One brief glance and he waves it away, hiding relief. Concentrating enough to make words legible is an annoyance at best, and one who would lie with spoken words will also lie with written ones. Over the years, he has developed a satisfactory compromise, and he employs it now. "Summarize it for me."

Again, it is as though a switch has flipped at his command. The awkwardness evaporates, leaving a crisp obedience that he wishes he could trust. It would be…refreshing…to have a minion who is not only loyal, but competent. She glances at the paper, marshaling her thoughts while he stands with arms crossed.

"Physical skills: average. Size below average, stamina average, agility above average, strength below average. Incapable of flight." The last words are said in a ruthlessly emotionless voice that doesn't fool either of them. "Magical skills: average. Magnitude of power below average. Fine manipulation above average." She pauses to brace herself. "Command of Nathrezim control techniques: above average. Defense, average. Infiltration, above average. Structural alteration, above average. Frontal impact, below average. Creative reconstruction, above average." She sets the paper down and picks up the one she was writing on when he came in. His impassive expression and firmly-closed mind give her no indication if she's sabotaged the little bit of trust she's managed to win so far, or not. "Domestic skills: average. Cooking, below average. Resource control, average. Embroidery, above average."

"Embroidery?" He's let his disguise fall sometime during the recitation, and one black eyebrow arches out from behind the blindfold.

"Embroidery," she repeats firmly. "A quick and dirty assessment of any given Nathrezim's abilities: creativity, complexity, control, dedication."

"I see." And he does; he remembers threading his way through the currents of a society where one's garments could speak louder than words. "When I return, I expect you to be able to show me what you are capable of." The ghost of a smirk flits across his face, and his tiger-by-the-tail reverts to adolescent adoration.

"I will, my Lord!"

"Yes," he says archly, "you will." His illusions form around him as he strides to the door, and he pauses before opening it. "I've ordered my Head of Historical Investigation to check on you while I'm away. Expect him later today."

She blinks as the door closes, aware that her visitor is a test of some sort but not understanding how….yet.


	8. Checking the gift horse for fangs

Joshua opens the door tentatively. She looks up from whatever invisible matrix she's poking at, her face breaking into a surprised smile. A brushing motion dismisses the work and she lets him sweep her into a relieved hug.

"What were you poking at when I came in?"

_In his private quarters, the disguised warlord stills before the security screen and waits for his Champion to answer. "A kind of puzzle," she tells her adoptive uncle, and he relaxes a fraction. If she's keeping secrets, she's at least keeping them from the man who brought her into his family as well._

"Our master told me to report here for a meeting," Joshua says, glancing around her quarters. "I had no idea the meeting would be with you."

"He told me that he'd ordered the Head of Historical Investigation to check on me," she replies. "I guess that's you?"

"Mmm-hmm. Created the position specifically for me. When he said I'd be rewarded for my service, I never thought that I'd actually be rewarded."

"He keeps his word," she says softly.

"But why would he go through the effort of making everything look like something terrifying, if he's just going to turn around and do things like this? I'm not blind, I know he did this on purpose. Either he's arranged it to be nice to you, or to be nice to me, or both of us, but he still did something nice and disguised it as some kind of poisoned apple command."

The silence stretches. Finally, she quirks one eyebrow and breaks it. "If he came out and said he wanted to do something nice for you, would you believe he was genuinely being nice?"

Joshua runs his hands through his hair and starts pacing. "No. Yes. I don't know. He's built a reputation for ruthlessness, but aside from the killings he hasn't actually done anything particularly horrible. I mean, I thought for sure he'd have you in some kind of prison-"

"No." The one sharp word stops Joshua dead and he looks at her, curious about the vehemence in her voice. She shakes her head for emphasis. "No. He wouldn't do that."

_Again, he stills. He told her only the bare bones – has she divined something more from them? Will she share what she knows with Joshua?_

"I guess you're too valuable to-"

"No," she interrupts again. "He wouldn't do that. To anyone. I know you investigated him – did you find any record of him imprisoning anyone?"

"No…" Joshua says slowly. "Come to think of it, he doesn't seem to go for anything exotic in the way of punishment. Either you're given a second chance, or you die."

"An imprisoned enemy is only neutralized while he is imprisoned, and if he gets out, he's a much more dangerous enemy."

Joshua nods. "You have a point. It does make a kind of ruthless logic. And I guess if word got out that he was doing nice things, people wouldn't take him so seriously and then he'd have to kill more people, and…Tessa, you do know what he is, right?"

She blinks at the change of subject. "What do you mean?"

_Well now, wasn't this interesting? __He leans forward, eager to see what unfolds._

Joshua makes a frustrated sound and starts pacing again. "I don't-...I can't-...That is, I don't think I should say anything else. He asked me if you knew that I knew."

She shrugs. "I doubt there's anything _you _could tell me about him that I don't already know." There is a pause as she watches Joshua pace, but her eyes flick to the ceiling. _"I know you were testing him,"_ she says in the language he grew up speaking, _"and I know you're testing me now. I only hope I'm found worthy."_ She smiles briefly, the hero-worship shining out before she smothers it. "How're Grandma and Grandpa?"

_He sits up straight in surprise. For an heartbeat, he is impaled with fear that she knows everything, but no - the emphasis she'd used implied that she knew everything _Joshua _could know, not that she knew absolutely _everything_. He frowns then; how did she know she was under surveillance? Had he told her that? Yes - the second time he visited her, he had mentioned the guards watching her work an invisible matrix. He'd forgotten all about it, but apparently she had not. She'd sat on the knowledge, unbothered by it. He shifts uncomfortably, remembering unrelenting bars, but he can't afford the vulnerability of trust just yet. Not until he knows if this gift-horse has venomed fangs. Clever of her, to use his native language for her message so that Joshua would not understand her words, and he would be assured of Joshua's ignorance. He knew she could not have known that dialect before their first meeting, or she would have used it then. Her command of his native tongue would bother him if he didn't know half a dozen languages himself thanks to his demonic half. Clever, too, to speak in a tone that sounded like she was talking to herself. Yes...she would make a very valuable weapon...if he could trust her to not turn in his hands. He returns his attention to the screen, although he doubts anything helpful will be revealed now that she knows it is a test. _

The conversation turns to domestic matters, the details of Joshua's new position and the move and how his parents are dealing. "Grandma" worries that she's not eating enough, she and Joshua share a chuckle over the fact that she doesn't really need to eat, but "Grandma" doesn't grasp that or care. Joshua makes a few weak attempts to find out what she's been up to, but she deflects them. At the end of the hour, he returns to his new job and she returns to the invisible puzzle she's been playing with.

_After a few minutes, he switches the security feed back to the guard's station. It seems that Joshua can be trusted to keep his mouth shut, while Tessa... He rewinds the feed, replays that section. She not only kept his secrets, but she never did answer Joshua's question. Clever, his little tiger-by-the-tail, but he still doesn't know how long her fangs are, how sharp her claws - whether he's caught a kitten or a ferocious beast. He grins, anticipating her reaction when he returns from his trip. Soon, he will have his answers - one way or the other. _


	9. Preparing to sew what she'll reap

After Joshua has left, she occupies herself with the intricacies of preparation. If she is to properly demonstrate what she is capable of, then she wants to have a brand-new design ready to execute. She brings up the basic embroidery border matrix and stares at it for a while, trying to decide on a design. Something that demonstrates her skills, both magical and mental. Something that blends her past and her present. She strings together the Nathrezim runes that spell her name and her father's and mother's names - lineage declaration is an ancient and traditional fallback - and then improvises 'champion' and strings her Lord's name after it. The flow of shapes is awkward, and she frowns before moving her name and lineage declaration after the champion declaration. That doesn't help. More tweaking follows, playing with terminology and order until she has an aesthetically pleasing flow that doesn't read like a child's stuttering. For the actual border design, she loops the runes in whorls and short, jagged lines like the ones she remembers seeing on his chest and arms. This lets her play with arrangement even more, and by the time she leans back in satisfaction, nearly two hours have passed.

She drinks in electricity while she contemplates colors. Bold? Pastel? An inventory of the cloth and thread she has available results in a brief, adolescent temper-tantrum wherein clothes and pillows are flung against the wall until they form a pile big enough for her to flop on. What's she going to embroider her new design _on?_ It would be _extremely_ forward of her to embroider something for _him_ - she hasn't yet earned his trust, much less worked her way to a position where she could even _present _herself for consideration, forget actually _being_ considered, which is the point at which it would be proper for her to embroider gifts for him. So, something for him is out. That leaves something for her. Would that be improper?

Tantrum forgotten, she sits up and sorts through her clothes. Normally, wearing anything marked with his name would be a breach of propriety since she hasn't presented herself and he hasn't accepted her for consideration, but...

She pauses, holding up a light-purple shirt, then dismisses it as being too close to her natural skin tone.

He accepted her into his service. It would be pushing the boundaries of social convention to declare her station so boldly - if anyone on this world could read the runes to know that's what they said. Wearing proof of her devotion would ease some of the burning drive to serve him that had been gnawing at her since she first touched his astral form. A white shirt she hadn't finished altering to account for wings catches her attention, and her decision is made. She has a whole spool of the lavender shade that matches her skin; it never gets used because human skin requires a completely different color scheme. If she can finish altering the shirt, it will make the perfect blank canvas for her new border pattern.

Shirt clutched in one hand, she dives for her needles and thread. Does she have enough white? Yes, she does. Will the rune border design be too plain? What other colors does she have? A halo of light blue would set off the lavender nicely, but no - there's not nearly enough of the light blue, and the turquoise overpowers it. Pink? Too pale, same with the yellow...but wait. If she limned the runes with that lime green, and then limned the green with the pale yellow...yes, that would give her a glow effect and soften the lime green at the same time.

Decision made, the chosen spools are lined up on the desk and she settles down on the couch for a long night of sewing. She won't actually start the embroidery until he gets back, but she wants to make sure the shirt is prepared.


	10. Showing what she's capable of

She knows when he has returned. There is nothing she can point to, no thread of magic or overheard conversation from the guards that tell her yes, he is back. To all senses, the day dawns the same as the last six or seven have, and will continue the same as the days before: the isolation she has grown used to, broken by Joshua's hour-long "meetings". She knows differently. Restlessness fills her. She checks and double-checks the shirt, the needle, the thread. Everything is ready for his return, for her demonstration of skill. Although she has never paid particular attention to what she's wearing when he visits, she frets about it now and changes clothes half a dozen times until she winds up in teal stretch pants with flared legs and a slightly-loose sleeveless purple top. Her hair is brushed and tied back with a teal scrunchie.

Excitement bubbles up inside her, anticipation making her unable to focus on anything for very long. She straightens her suite in bursts of activity and sips at electricity to ensure that she doesn't run out of energy mid-way through her demonstration. Finally, there is nothing left to prepare and she paces back and forth through the main room, waiting.

When the door opens, she is prepared to drop into a kneeling position, but it is Joshua, looking fearful and holding "her" amulet.

"By the power of the amulet which commands you," he says shakily, eyes flickering to the heavily-armed guards on either side of him, "and in the name of the Lord you serve, you are commanded to accompany me, for he has summoned you."

_You will maintain the charade that this holds control over you_. She remembers his command, and stands straighter in a show of obedience. "I hear and obey the words of my Lord."

Joshua nods and turns around, leading the way. The guards fall into step on either side, wary, and she keeps her eyes on the back of Joshua's head rather than looking around to see where they're going. Joshua stops before a reinforced double door flanked by no less than six armed guards, who move to block him and force him to the left while at the same time opening the right door and motioning her inside. The doors open outwards and the guard only opens it a crack, so it is not until the door closes behind her that she is able to see what kind of room it is.

It must have been a gym, at some point. The vaulted ceiling is easily fifty feet high, with abandoned fixtures of unknown purpose and bright lighting that casts the corners into deep shadow. The stone of the walls has been half covered with mirrors and mats, and rubber paneling to a height of ten feet on the other half. The same rubber paneling covers every inch of the floor, muffling any sound and providing traction without potentially tripping anyone.

The room is empty, save for some pieces of metal in the center. She steps carefully over to them, nerves taut, and has just recognized the shapes as being similar to the dual blades wielded by some species of employed by the Legion, when-

"Pick up the blades."

The growled command echoes through the room, giving no hint as to where it originated. Hesitantly, she obeys. They are lighter than she expected, which is good because she's never fought with this type of weapon before and they are nearly as tall as she is. No sooner does she have them in hand than she hears the sound of wings, and there is an impact behind her. She whirls, suddenly terrified, the weight of the blades making her awkward, and freezes.

He stands before her as he truly is, the power at his command crackling about him, bearing blades even longer than the ones she has. Where hers appear to be cheaply made, if functional, his are recognizable - and legendary. The Warglaives of Azzinoth, lost thousands of years ago when the Legion failed to conquer her mother's homeworld. They glow and crackle with suppressed energy, but she knows the stories of what those blades have done.

"Attack me."

The words leave no room for argument, and his mind is closed - but his chaotic feelings batter her mental defenses, overwhelming her briefly. She is beyond terrified, and unable to think past the moment. She needs to attack him. It is imperative - no, _vital_ to everything that she strike at him, _now, _before all is lost. Her own feelings struggle weakly, the desire to not harm him and the fear that her weakness makes her unworthy, but they are trampled beneath his insistent need for her to come at him with everything she has. One breath, two, and as she stands frozen with fear the need changes to despair that she will not do what he needs her to do: try to kill him with the blades.

"Attack me, or I will kill you here and now." His despair howls at her, tears away her defenses, and then it is _her_ despair that rips through her, driving everything from her mind but the need to ease that deep, searing pain. She would do anything, _anything_ to make it better and erase his anguish.

In that moment, something shifts inside her. The fear no longer controls her, the despair no longer drowns her, and she is suddenly aware of the fragile hope buried beneath the other emotions. A third breath, and her mind leaps into action. She doesn't know how to use these heavy blades, but he does. The knowledge drifts past the barriers of his mind in motes and sparks, and she gathers those. He is expecting a strike _here_, which he will block like _this_.

Knowledge births movement; the blade in her right hand is thrusts towards where his will move to intercept, and the shock of impact nearly tears it from her clawed fingers. When did she drop her illusions? Does it matter? He's moving to strike her now, desperately afraid that she will not block like _this_, and she takes that knowledge and hauls the left blade barely into position. Beneath the ring of metal on metal, there is a tiny surge of satisfaction, a fragile flare of hope. She latches onto that - if she can strike enough, block enough, the fear will fade and everything will be okay.

All attempts at rational thought are abandoned in favor of listening for those motes of knowledge, the fragments of expectation. This would not work if he were Nathrezim-trained, but he is not and she is able to glean enough to predict where he expects her to strike or block - barely. The blades are still awkward in her hands, her motions jerky and sloppy.

Shift weight. Turn. He expects a strike _there_. Shock of impact that destroys a grain of despair. Listen for the motes beneath the fear. He will strike _here_ and expects a block like _this. _Shock of impact, listen for the motes.

How many times have their blades met? How long as this gone on? Her breath burns in her lungs, her arms and legs ache, but she ignores it. Nothing matters but the growing nodule of hope and the waning tide of fear. No longer does he expect a single strike; now she has a choice of moves he thinks she may make. The knowledge she has absorbed lends her false expertise with the cumbersome weapons; she does not truly know how to use them, her muscles are not familiar with the motions he expects her to make. In a strange way, he is leading her in a martial dance and her continued strikes have begun to bring a sort of relaxation to him. This is something he is so intimately familiar with that the motions are as easy as breathing, and with each strike he is pleased with her.

Thrust. Whirl. Block. Shift.

The motions are becoming easier, now - or is it his familiarity that she is borrowing? She is a vessel for his will, dancing to the song of war his mind sings. The discordant note of her physical discomfort is repressed, until she moves to block his strike and instead, the walls tremble and the floor leaps up at her and there is nothing but darkness.


	11. Passing the test by passing out

She is floating. Out of the darkness in which she floats, a single word emerges.

_Drink._

Copper-tinged electricity flows into her, brings with it the awareness of her body. She drinks, and becomes aware of a buzzing cloud of half-formed thoughts and repressed emotions. One mental hand reaches out to catch a thought fragment as it zips by, and she sees herself pitch face-first to the floor. Memory returns, the sparring match that meant so much to him – and which ended so abruptly with her ignoble faceplant.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, and the stripped copper wire that was feeding her falls out of her mouth. "I wasn't good enough."

The wire presses against her lips again, and she obediently opens her mouth to accept it. Electricity once again flows into her. The swarm of chaotic thoughts sharpens, consolidates.

"No. I pushed you too hard." _It's my fault, my fault, my fault, always my fault, everything always turns out wrong. _"I almost killed you."_ Almost killed you, killed you, killed you. "Because of you, Tyrande is dead!" Not that, never that, would rather die, my fault my fault my fault. _

She begins to open her mouth, but the cloud of his unprotected thoughts howls and focuses on her. _Don't speak, drink, drink, regain your strength. Need you to live, live, live, not die. "Because of you, Tyrande is dead!" Not again, never again, my fault, my fault, everything I try to build turns to ashes in my hands, my hands, my clawed demonic horrible- …hand. On my horn. Like before. Why, why? Why-  
_

Eyes still closed, she drinks in electricity and focuses on running one trembling hand up whichever of his horns is closest. With her mind, she reaches into the jagged maze of broken memory and gels the guilt into stillness. The nodule of hope being battered by 'Tyrande is dead' gets pulled away, and she gels 'Tyrande is dead', too. There is a thread leading away from that memory and she follows it to 'The priestess may still be alive.' A false fear, then, but a strong one. She ties them both together, gels them, and tucks them out of the way. She doesn't have the strength yet to do more than that, but with those stilled and the guilt no longer piercing anything that moves, the rest of the swarm calms considerably.

…_pushed her too far, and her first thought is that she wasn't good enough. I was never good enough. _The guilt twitches, but is held too securely to interrupt the train of limping thought. _Kept trying, kept failing. Maybe this time, it won't fall apart. Hand on my- …trembling. Pushing _herself_ too hard?_

One clawed hand closes gently on her wrist, and she allows him to bring her hand back down. A deep draught of electricity, and she forces her eyes to open and focus on his worried face. "I didn't want to stop," she says weakly. "It was making you happy."

…_concerned for my happiness? No one cares whether or not I'm happy-_ the 'my fault' strains to go ricocheting through his mind, but the gel holds it in place. _–but apparently she does. _Something shudders its way out of the tangled jumble of doubts and recrimination, fears and pain. Broken like the rest of his mind, it lumbers over to the memory of the warglaives falling from her hands as she tumbles to the floor and drops heavily down upon it, absorbing it, and now she can see what it is.

Responsibility. The scars of past failures and rotting remains of ruined hopes crisscross its crumbling surface, but she can tell that this is an integral part of him – and one that's not quite as broken as the rest of his mind. With a shuddering roar, the sense of responsibility heaves itself back up and charges startlingly fast at the fear that she will betray him. She watches in awe as responsibility savages fear with cries of _if I hadn't distrusted her, I wouldn't have almost killed her._ _My fault_ twitches beneath the gel, wanting to gnaw on the responsibility, but the gel holds.

"Next time, tell me when you need a break." He frowns at her, chastising, and the informal displeasure is more effective than any aura of painful death could ever be.

"Yes, my Lord," she says meekly, but he shakes his head.

"Not 'my Lord'. Not when we're alone." The bulky shape of responsibility flinches, the remnants of broken promises protruding from it bleeding pain by association.

She blinks and skims through his mind, trying to trace the tangled threads to their ends, to figure out what he wants to be called instead. 'Shan'do' is tainted with strands of pain that lead into a festering jungle of hatred and anguish. 'Illidan' is infected by the memory of a woman, lilac skin and silver eyes, crying it in horror and disgust. There is nothing else, except…

The responsibility roars, stomping restlessly about, and she wonders if he would object if he knew the connotations of what she is about to do. Taking a deep breath, she translates the Nathrezim term into a Kaldorei one and prepares to violate a social boundary by taking liberties he doesn't know exist.

"Yes, my Kal'shan." The giddy joy in her voice makes him blink as the meaning of the words – 'honored star' – penetrate the maze of jumbled emotions.

For the space of a breath he is frozen in place, one hand holding hers while his other arm supports her, and he trembles with the desire to hold her close again – but no, that would be improper of him. Millennia of social awkwardness swarm him and he releases her hand to bring the copper wire back to her lips. She accepts it and resumes drawing in energy before he can tell her to, her eyes still fixed on his in adoration.

_I don't deserve this._ The single thought rings out silently. Emboldened by the acceptance of her devotion, even done in ignorance, she places a single thought in his mind like an offering to his sense of responsibility, watches it taste the thought and moan with the pain of fractured functionality.

_You have it anyway._


	12. At least he's trying

Joshua is leaning against a wall, dozing, when the door finally opens. The guards who have been waiting with him for the last few hours stop their idle chatter and snap to attention before their Lord can see them. The Lord's warm brown eyes narrow, and Joshua doubts that he missed their lack of discipline. He lets it slide, however, more concerned with the half-demon at his side who is practically falling over with exhaustion. Joshua suspects that only the Lord's firm grip on her shoulder is holding her upright, something that is confirmed when she is shoved roughly at him.

"My demon is spent from her training. Return her to her quarters and see to her needs. I will be assessing her condition tomorrow, and I expect a full report when you return the amulet to me in one hour's time."

Joshua can feel his expression turn stony at the distant, arrogant tone even though he is more than half-certain it is a ruse. "Yes, my Lord," he says crisply, draping one of her arms over his shoulder and wrapping his arm around her waist to hold her upright. He does his best to keep his face impassive as his Lord strides imperiously away, but his mind seethes with resentment at how Tessa must have been treated for her to be barely-conscious.

No one says anything as they are escorted back to her apartment. Joshua helps her to the couch where her nozzled cable is draped and makes sure she can hold it to her lips. She perks up slightly as the power flows into her, but she still looks like she's been starved and needs a week's worth of sleep. Unable to just sit there and watch her, he begins pacing…and ranting about how she's been mistreated.

"He can hear you, Uncle Josh."

The tired words bring him up short. "What?"

"I don't know if he's watching right now, but he probably is. He was super worried about me."

"Worried? He sure didn't sound worried. He sounded-"

"I know. But he was."

Joshua looks at her silently for a long minute, then sits heavily in the nearest chair. "Okay, okay. So if he was worried about you but sounded like he didn't give a flying half-chewed rat's rear about you, then he must have been doing it to preserve his image. Like any time he does something nice for someone. Right?" When she nods, he rubs his eyes and continues. "Okay. So he's worried but he doesn't want anyone to know, and he can hear us because this room is bugged and he's probably watching right now. So explain to me why I'm not going to be offed now that you've just betrayed his secret to me?"

With his eyes closed, Joshua misses how she shudders slightly at his choice of words. "He wants you to know."

Incredulous, Joshua opens his eyes and stares at her. "He what?"

"You're worried about me, and it's making you angry at him. He doesn't want to kill anyone if he doesn't have to, and you wouldn't be angry at him if you knew that he wants me to be treated well. That's why he gave us an hour together."

It makes perfect sense, he has to admit. Joshua lets the subject drop and spends the rest of the hour enjoying the time he's been allotted with his pseudo-niece.

* * *

When he hesitantly steps into his Lord's office to return the amulet, Joshua can't help but wonder if she was wrong after all. The Lord is standing with his back to the door, seemingly engrossed by the large screen displaying the view from the side of a mountain. Slowly, as though sudden moves might make him fly into a rage, Joshua edges to the desk and places the amulet on it. There is no reaction from his Lord, and they stand there in silence for a few minutes.

"She was right."

The words aren't entirely unexpected, but the tone is. The usual anger or lack of concern has been replaced with what Joshua can only call grudging resignation. For lack of anything else he feels comfortable saying, Joshua settles on asking, "My Lord?"

He turns from the screen with a cool, detached expression. "She was your demon first; you are the expert on her care. Report, Joshua. What is the proper way to care for one's demon so as to get the best use out of her?"

Joshua blinks. His Lord knows that Joshua didn't really have any control over Tessa so why-

_Oh,_ Joshua thinks. _He really _is_ worried about her and doesn't know what to do. Okay. I think I can deal with this. I just have to make 'don't lock her in a room by herself for days at a time' sound impersonal. _

"I found that I got the best rapport when I spent time bonding with her," Joshua says in what he hopes is a casual tone. "I'd suggest at least one hour three times a week. She doesn't really require feeding as long as she has her cable, but she enjoys the occasional baked treat. And, of course, I found that taking her with me on my daily routine helped…um…socialize her. And, uh, familiarized my co-workers to…reduce…accidental hostilities. You know, get people used to seeing her and get her used to seeing people."

He frowns thoughtfully. "I see. Anything else?"

"When she's been good, I suggest rewarding her. Just ask her what she likes, she'll list off a bunch of things and then you can pick one at random to reward her with." For a few seconds, Joshua wonders what kind of world his Lord came from that he needs advice on how to treat a teenage girl, but then it occurs to him that he probably doesn't want to know after all.

"Very well. You may go."

_Tessa was right,_ Joshua thinks as he leaves. _I really can't be angry at him when I know that he wants her treated well, he just has no idea how to go about it._


	13. Pop quiz

It is his mind that she becomes aware of first. The broken thoughts mill around her, occasionally stampeding as _my fault_ chases after them and whips them into a frenzy. Still half asleep, she reaches out and ties _it was making you happy_ to the guilt like a bell, bait for his sense of responsibility. That's how he manages to remain functional, she realizes, suddenly awake. There's far too much damage, too many bleeding wounds for him to maintain any kind of functionality if he actually tried to deal with them, so he…doesn't. He ignores what he can, forcefully if necessary – she can see the barricades built of broken memories, and wonders what could be behind them that's worse than what's allowed to roam free. With most of himself walled off like that, he picks a direction and devotes all his efforts there, giving the shattered structures of his mind something vaguely constructive to focus on while the sense of responsibility charges forward blindly.

She wonders what he will be like when his mind is no longer broken.

_This is going to take a lot of reconstructive tampering,_ she thinks as she updates the working model of his mind. The question of whether or not it's worth the time and effort it will take to make him whole never even occurs to her; he's her Kal'shan, _of course_ she's going to fix him, even if it takes her the rest of her life. She does, however, realize that this devotion is why her mother banished her. If he ever decided that he wanted to rule the world of his birth, she would pour herself into helping him do just that, and not even her terrifying mother would be able to stop her.

With _my fault_ otherwise occupied, his mind calms and she can take stock of the situation. After Joshua left last night she'd availed herself of the hot tub her apartment had, letting the heat soothe her until she woke up choking on hot water. She'd changed into – what had she put on after she dried her aching limbs? It wasn't something unspeakably embarrassing or revealing, was it? She didn't think she'd be able to meet her Kal'shan's eyes if he saw her in the frogs-and-dragonflies jammies. No, she remembers with an internal sigh of relief, she'd thrown on the plain orange pajama bottoms and an oversized shirt strewn with giant flowers. Then she'd flopped back down on the couch because she was too lazy to find the power outlet in her bedroom, and she'd fallen asleep. And now she'd woken up because her Kal'shan was _here_, watching her, worried about her.

She opens her eyes, stretches, winces, finds him sitting on a chair he'd moved closer, and smiles. He looks startled, his mind scrambling to close its mismatched defenses as it practically shrieks confusion and panic over what he is supposed to do when a girl he almost killed _smiles_ at him.

"Was I right?" she asks hesitantly, deflecting the situation away from his social awkwardness.

"You were," he says. After a brief, uncomfortable pause, he adds, "Well done."

Her smile grows even wider. "Thank you, Kal'shan."

"It is I who should be thank you," he says, still uneasy with her lack of resentment. "You defused a situation that could have ended…unpleasantly."

The defenses of his mind are haphazard enough that she can slip through them, and now that she is familiar with their arrangement, she does exactly that. She is moderately alarmed to discover that while _my fault_ is not currently a threat, the improvised functionality of his broken mind is being threatened by a significantly powerful fear built from what look to be the other halves of the ruined dreams that protrude from his wounded sense of responsibility.

_He's afraid that he'll somehow ruin everything,_ she realizes, and is horrified to discover that she has nothing with which to counter that fear.

He frowns at the distress on her face, and she hastily gels _my fault_ in place before the guilt can make things worse.

"You are not yet recovered." It is a simple statement of fact, lightly flavored by disapproval.

She might have apologized, if she weren't able to see that it is himself the disappointment is aimed at, not her. "My energy is, but my body…" She winces and sits up, muscles screaming protest.

"I see," he says coldly, trapping concern behind verbal ice. "We will have to start with the basics. Tomorrow, whether your body has recovered or not."

"Yes, Kal'shan." The thought of how much that's going to hurt doesn't dampen her enthusiasm any. There's something well-protected in his mind that she can't quite identify yet, but it surfaced when he announced starting with the basics, and she is eager to see what it is.

Silence descends. She is surprised that he is not making any motion to leave, even though he doesn't seem to have anything planned. For a few minutes, she just basks in his presence and lets her visible pleasure wash against him until she can hear the tone of his public thoughts shift from 'what am I doing?' to 'at least she seems happy'.

"Kal'shan?" He starts, and she withdraws from his mind as the defenses shuffle about in uncertainty. "May I show you my embroidery?"

He glowers as though searching for a reason to say no. "You may," he says reluctantly.

Slowly, wincing against the pain of abused muscles, she reaches down for the nozzled power cable where it fell to the floor and takes a long pull of electricity. The shirt, needles, and thread are still where she arranged them so carefully, and lift at her magical command. The spells aren't hard individually, but holding four levitation spells at once takes her complete concentration. Her face clears of all expression as she pulls up the carefully-prepared spell matrix and fits first the cloth, then the lavender thread, into place. A breath as the strain lightens momentarily, another pull on the power nozzle, and she activates the first part of the spell matrix.

At first, she just feeds power into the spell and watches the needle dip in and out, in and out, spelling her name in runes she knows he cannot read. Once she is certain that the purple thread is flowing correctly along its predetermined path, she reaches for the light green thread and fits it into place. The second section of the spell is activated, the power draw doubles, and her aching muscles are forgotten as she concentrates on keeping the power flow even. Green now starts lining the purple runes. A few breaths while she makes sure the spells are stable, and the pale yellow thread obediently settles into its place in the matrix. This is the hardest part. She's never been able to maintain both an embroidery matrix and a regulation buffer at the same time, so she must keep the power flow balanced by herself. The yellow thread springs into action, tattooing a halo around both green and purple.

For several minutes there is silence. Three needles flit over the cloth, color blooming in their wakes as the Nathrezim runes spread slowly up the right side of the shirt in accordance with the design she'd spent so long working out. All her focus is on keeping the spells powered, keeping the motions smooth. It is a tangible relief when the lilac thread reaches the end of the design and that section of the spell becomes a simple levitation once again. When the green finishes, she is able to spare enough concentration to knot and sever the two spools and set them back down. By the time the yellow has finished, she is once again aware that she is not alone in the room.

With the strain of the embroidery matrix no longer present, she cuts the yellow thread and tries not to sigh in relief. A triumphant gesture turns the shirt with a flourish and levitates it over to him for inspection while she sips power and remembers that why yes, she does still hurt.

He examines the shirt as it hangs in the air, unwilling to risk damaging it with his claws. He'd had his doubts about letting her demonstrate something that requires fine manipulation while so obviously suffering from what he put her through, but this was an application of magic that he'd never thought about. Memories from his long-buried youth stir restlessly and for a moment, he wonders what it would have been like if he had been able to strut about in something done this way. Ruthlessly, he crushes the thoughts and tramples them beneath the harsh reality of his life. The pattern, the spell he could see like the shining strands of a living spider web, was too complex and too smoothly-executed for her to have done this by hand. By the same token, the lines of unfamiliar runes form shapes not unlike the ones burned into his flesh, which means this could not have been a pre-existing design. He wonders how many hours she spent tinkering with it. With no other examples of Nathrezim embroidery to compare it to, he has no idea how good she may or may not be, but she was right when she called it a quick and dirty assessment of ability. She's still young, but if she possesses this level of skill now...

Clever, determined, and so eager for the slightest hint of his approval that she flung herself into a demonstration of complex magic less than a day after allowing him to work her to exhaustion. True, her raw power is lacking, but is he not proof that such things can be overcome? With a bit of training, she will be a more formidable lieutenant than even Vashj, because her loyalty will be without question.

He frowns. Will it?

His first instinct is to draw upon his power, to threaten the truth out of her - but that would only inflame her misplaced hero-worship. The cloth he'd nearly forgotten about withdraws and he follows it with his eyes until she plucks it from the air and cuddles it to her chest, eyes wide and expression mournful.

"You don't like it?" She looks ready to cry again. "I...I shouldn't have patterned it after your..."

"Stop."

She stills, biting her lip, eyes still wide as he stands up. After a moment, he steps closer to the couch and kneels so that their eyes are on the same level. One clawed hand on the arm of the couch for lack of a safer place to put it, he slowly reaches out with the other hand and gently, carefully, grips her chin. Whatever demonic ability it is that lets him detect lies is wide open, listening for all it's worth.

"Answer yes or no to each one. Do you have any intentions of breaking my trust, plotting against me, enacting revenge against me, or knowingly allowing others to inflict harm upon me?" There is no inflection in his voice; it is a litany he has used on many others. Always, there has been a conflicting echo in some part of the answer. He needs this, needs to hear where the betrayal will come from so he can plan accordingly.

She trembles beneath his hand. "I have no intentions of breaking your trust. I have no intentions of plotting against you." Her words lack the dissonance he's come to expect. "I will never enact revenge against you. I will _never_ knowingly allow others to inflict harm upon you!" That last declaration rings with defiance, a self-binding oath that sends shivers of truth up his arm, but she's not done. "I would rather take the blow for you than allow you to be struck. And if anyone tried to hurt you, I'd...I'd..." Some of the fire dies and she tilts her head slightly in his hand. "What do you want me to do with anyone who tries to hurt you?"

That, he was not expecting. "Keep them alive and able to answer questions," he says after a moment of mental juggling, then allows the hint of a cold smile to flit across his face. "Aside from that, I leave it to your discretion - and creativity." She smiles at that, but there is one more part to this test, a trick question that usually made liars out of even the most seemingly-devoted of his followers. "Would you lay down your life for me?"

"No."

Ah, honesty. The jaded disappointment has no more than reared its head, however, when she looks him directly in the eyes and clarifies.

"If I'm dead, I can't serve you."

She watches as his expression blanks out, hiding the chaos that reigns behind his mental defenses. Behind her own walls, she's weeping that he's been mistreated enough to make such an interrogation necessary – and raging at whoever caused such damage in the first place. He was very careful to give no names and speak in vague terms when he told her of the things he'd done, although she suspected it was to protect himself rather than to spare their reputations. After a minute, the mental churning quiets down and he releases the gentle hold he has on her chin to lightly touch her wrist instead. When she looks at him in confusion, he gestures for her to hold up the half-embroidered shirt.

"Finish that," he says firmly. "I want to see it on you."

He smirks to himself as she dissolves into adolescent glee. Joshua had suggested rewarding her when she'd pleased him, but he doesn't need to ask her what kind of things she wanted. The barest hint of approval is enough to put stars in her eyes, and the faintest smirk makes her look at him as though he were the greatest thing Azeroth had ever produced. For just a moment, a whisper of wistful longing asks why that hadn't worked with-

The thought is buried with vehemence that borders on homicidal, so ruthlessly suppressed that he doesn't even spare half a thought to recognize that there is something – some_one_ – he's not thinking about.

"You like it?" She's hesitant, remembering his earlier frown.

It's been so long since he had the luxury to judge anything an aesthetics that he is left scrambling for words. "It impressed me. I think it would suit you." Half-formed thoughts flit around, the anemic product of his atrophied imagination. "...I'd like to see what else you can create, as well."

At that, she looks so ecstatic and determined that he briefly wonders what he's unleashed, but dismisses it. He looks forward to being presented with a surprise that isn't going to leave him either bleeding, or trying to re-work his plans. With his traditional interrogation complete, he stands - and watches as she wistfully follows the upwards motion of his horns. Her hopeful look is met with his stern frown.

"Not until you can lift your arms and not have them tremble," he says, a little startled to discover that what he thought was going to be a gentle rebuke came out as a menacing growl instead.

She doesn't seem put off by the unintended show of hostility. "I understand, Kal'shan."

_Do you really?_ he wonders, but then he remembers her correcting Joshua's mistaken assumptions. "Rest well, then," he says aloud. "I will not go easy on you tomorrow." She pales a little at that, and he is suddenly, irrationally irritated by seeing her clothed in human seeming.

"Were you going easy on me before?"

Her voice trembles only slightly and he gives her a grin that is more than slightly cruel as he dons his own illusions.

"No."

She watches him leave, obscurely flattered that he's not going to hold back even though he's so concerned for her. There was a well-hidden spike of fear when he asked if she would lay down her life for him that she wasn't able to entirely catch and identify, but she guesses that he's afraid she'll 'betray' him by dying. As she lays back down and pulls the nozzle of her cable to her lips, she giggles tiredly and wonders when she should let him know that's not a concern.


	14. Fairy dust is for sissies

The next time she wakes up, it is because sleeping on the couch after half-killing herself the day before has given her wicked leg cramps. Mandatory classes ensured that she has complete command of half a dozen languages used in the Burning Legion, and she swears in all of them as she drags herself back to the hot tub. She refrains from cursing in her Kal'shan's native language, just in case he's watching, but once the hot water has relaxed her rebellious legs she realizes how silly that train of thought is. He commanded a significant force of demons as the master of the Black Temple, no doubt he picked up their languages without realizing it. If she was being listened to while cursing a blue streak, he would likely understand the words even if they weren't in an Azerothian dialect.

As much as she would have liked to stay in the hot tub all day, she remembers from her Basic Combat physical education classes that the best thing she can do is get her abused muscles working again. Given the unexpected pleasure her Kal'shan took when she made or blocked a strike, it's a safe bet that she'll be sparring with him regularly from now on, so she figures she may as well get back into shape.

She hauls herself out of the comforting embrace of the water, dries laboriously off, and shrugs into some loose sweats. A quick mutter, and her human disguise shifts to pure illusion; she's going to need her wings for this, and she doesn't think the guards watching need to see them. It doesn't take long to kick stray items out of the way to create an open area to work in. She takes a deep breath and begins the warm-ups she was taught in school.

Half an hour later, she limps to the couch and flops belly-down onto it.

_Good one, Tessa. Copy your last report card out and brag about your agility, and then run away from home and sit around getting lazy and out of shape. _With a groan, she flails around for her nozzle and drinks in electricity for a minute. _If he whirls those huge warglaives around like that, and he's done it for years and years, then it's no wonder he can fly._

She lifts one wing, winces, and lets it drop. He never actually came out and said he could fly, but the ability is a potent status symbol among the Nathrezim. Any dreadlord with ragged wing-edges has either the physical power or the magical might to lift him- or her-self off the ground, and should not be underestimated. Of course, the sheer amount of damage that has been done to his wings makes her wish she could oil them for him, and maybe rub some healing ointment onto the edges, but that thought is currently eclipsed by the realization that if she learns the warglaive, it might give her the muscle strength needed to gain the coveted ability of flight for herself.

That is, if she can keep up with him. She groans and stuffs herself back into mostly-human form, burying her face in a throw pillow once her horns have been reduced to the three-inch nubs that mark her as demon without scaring the natives. Perhaps a minute and a half is spent wallowing in teenage insecurities, and then she suddenly sits up, wincing as she does. She can't just sit around feeling sorry for herself.

After all, she has orders.


	15. Joshua gets it from his mother

Joshua reads the bold handwriting a third time, but the message does not change. He does not for an instant doubt that it is authentic; no one in their right mind would attempt to forge the Lord's penmanship. Still, a request this unusual...

As he secures his terminal and locks up his office, Joshua remembers the last conversation he had with his master and decides that these orders are a good thing. He just doesn't look forward to securing the specified items. There's no help for it, however; he folds the orders up, slips them into his breast pocket, straightens his shoulders and heads home.

* * *

"You're home early, Joshie. You didn't get fired, did you?"

"No, Mother, I didn't get fired."

She harrumphs and resumes scrubbing at the pot in the sink. "You will be, if you keep skipping out on your job."

Joshua sighs. "Warlord's orders, Mother."

"That butcher. He works you too hard."

"Mother, don't talk like that. Please."

She sniffs disdainfully. "Or what, he kills me? I'm old, Joshie. He can't frighten me. He can kill me if he wants, the big bully."

Joshua resists the urge to bury his face in his hands. "Mother, I've already told you, he's not keeping Tessa in a dungeon."

"So you say, but he's keeping her from her family. May as well be a dungeon, hmm?" With a triumphant motion, the pot is upended and laid on a towel to dry. "Bet she's wasting away without good, home-cooked meals."

This time, Joshua has to fight the motion of palm towards face. "I've told you a hundred times, she doesn't need to eat."

"She doesn't need my oatmeal-raisin cookies either, but she eats them."

"Actually..." Joshua pulls out the paper and unfolds it. "That's why I'm home early. The Warlord wants a batch of 'whatever baked treat' Tessa 'most enjoys' to be delivered by me to her suite tomorrow at four in the afternoon."

"What, so early? She'll spoil her appetite."

"Mother. She doesn't need to eat."

The elderly woman turns to him, hands on her hips. "Of course she does, she's a growing girl. Now shoo, out of my kitchen. I have dinner to cook, and if you're going to play hooky from work, I won't have you underfoot. You can go help your father in the work room. And mind you wash your hands!" she calls after Joshua as he retreats.

* * *

When Joshua slips into the Warlord's office as ordered, he finds himself watched with a very intent expression.

"I trust my orders will be carried out." The Lord's growl isn't as threatening as it usually is. Either that, or Joshua is getting used to it.

"They will, my Lord." He gives a half-bow, and reverently receives the powerless amulet.

"See that they are. I want my demon rewarded properly after her training."

The possessive tone reminds Joshua of an adolescent punk defending his girlfriend, and Joshua fights back a grin. "I trust her performance has pleased you, my Lord?"

Although the other man does not drop his illusions, Joshua is suddenly, forcefully reminded of what his master truly is, and just how fine a line he is treading. Terror floods him, making him aware of just how powerless he is. This time, however, the terror shorts out his fear center and leaves him oddly calm.

"You don't have to do that," he says quietly. "You already scare me spitless, and you know I'm not going to blab your secrets. I know you care about Tessa; you saw to it that I'd know. If you hadn't noticed, I care about her, too." He stops and bites his lip, throttling back the anger that fear had kept bottled up.

The aura of painful impending death holds a moment longer, then pops like a soap bubble. "You are angry that I took her from you."

"No." Joshua is trying very hard to keep the anger out of his voice and off his face, but he knows he's failing. "You didn't take her. She gave herself to you." _I know the punishment for lies, _Joshua thinks, _but I've yet to see him punish truth. "_ I'm angry because you're acting like…like you're the only one that matters. Like you're the only one who could possibly care about her. Like she's a vanquished enemy rather than a teenage girl."

He watches Joshua for a long moment, warm brown eyes in a handsome face concealing the dreadful power and unstable mind Joshua suspects lurk behind the mask of humanity. "You are either very brave, or very foolish…little human." The words are a menacing hiss.

"I'm frustrated…my Lord."

The warm brown eyes widen in false innocence. "Oh?"

Joshua runs one hand through his hair, not quite believing that he's really having this conversation. "I don't care that you're – what you are. It doesn't matter to me, just like it doesn't matter that Tessa's what she is. You're the legal ruler of the region, and I'd serve you faithfully anyway, because that's the kind of person I am. You trusted me with your secret, and I'm honored – but you treat _me_ like an enemy along with everyone else. Not everyone is out to get you, my Lord. I'm not, and I know damn well that Tessa's not, and it wouldn't bother me so much to be ordered around like you might kill me at any moment because I know you're trying to uphold your reputation, but-" Joshua stops, takes a deep breath, and tries to calm down just a little. "But Tessa doesn't deserve that. My Lord."

Silence. It lasts long enough for Joshua's anger to fade, leaving fertile ground for nervousness and disbelief to grow. What did he just do? Did he really tell off the Warlord?

"I have an appointment to keep; we will discuss this later. Your honesty is…refreshing. I will rely on your input when constructing a timetable wherein I can re-introduce her to this world." His voice is mild, but his eyes leave no doubts that the subject is closed for the time being. "Please escort her to the designated chamber, and see to it that her reward is waiting in her suite."

Joshua bows, more deeply this time. "Yes, my Lord."


	16. More issues than a lifetime subscription

The motions are instinctual; effortless despite the sheer weight of the weapons. Years, centuries of repeating them as a physical distraction have led to them becoming a channel through which he can direct some of his internal conflict, leaving his mind free to gnaw on other things.

He ponders Joshua's words. _Tessa doesn't deserve that._

Insolent human, how dare he? If he only knew the sacrifices…the centuries of torment…but Joshua's right. Tessa _doesn't_ deserve that. The routine ends and he starts it anew, disregarding the little voice that's calculating how long it will take his brash servant to bring her here.

Tessa. She doesn't deserve that, but what-

His blades slice the air as though dismembering the conflicting impulses struggling for dominance in his mind. He wants to lavish gifts upon her, to see her smile at him the way no one has done in thousands of years – if then. He wants to lock her away, to keep that smile all to himself, keep her from forsaking him.

Has he been unfair to her? Treating her wrong? The rare moment of admitting fault is rewarded with a resurgence of memories he'd kept locked away, each bringing with it a fragment of the torment he'd endured for thousands of years. His movements speed up as he tries to slay each one, toss the corpses back behind the walls he'd built to keep what passed for his sanity intact. Only when the last one has been wrestled away, leaving his mind somewhat clear, does he notice the figure awkwardly mimicking his motions.

"Tessa."

When she turns to look at him, he realizes he's said it out loud, an involuntary exhalation of surprise. She brings her blades to a stop, beaming at him with wordless elation, her posture half pride and half uncertainty. The shirt he'd commanded she finish is now complete, the colors of the thread giving the illusion that the runes are shining through the cloth from her skin itself. She has exceeded his expectation, however, and embroidered the same pattern on a pair of white pants that cling to her legs before flaring out just above her hooves.

Why couldn't any of his other students have been this devoted?

"Well done, my Champion." Words are the only way he can reward such dedication, and his voice wraps itself warmly around the praise in a way that would surely have left his forces wondering who had killed the Lord of Outland and taken his form.

Oh _yes_, that's the smile. The one that makes him forget, just for an instant, that he is a horrible monster who Fate has struck down again and again for doing what he thought was right in spite of everyone who said it was wrong. The one that makes him want to keep her locked away forever, as he had been, to ensure that she never gives that smile to anyone else. The one that makes him want to terrify her, chase her away before she can turn on him as everyone else has, before the devotion turns to disgust and leaves him with yet another face, another voice to barricade away before the pain drowns him and leaves him a prisoner of despair more surely than he had ever been imprisoned beneath the earth.

Those barricades tremble now, the dead memories clamoring for blood in the form of his pain. He opens his mouth to spear her with anger at himself, to send her away so that he can deal with this internal rebellion, but she sets her warglaives on the floor and deliberately steps closer to him. Foolish girl! Doesn't she know that she'll only get hurt, the way everyone else has? He won't mean to, but something will go wrong and everything he's tried to do here will fall apart, and the one to suffer for it will be her rather than the one who deserves it – him.

Apparently she doesn't know, because she lays her hands on his chest, then presses her body against his, head turned to the side so that she can rest her cheek against the fel scars burned into his flesh. The barricades hold; the restless memories quiet. Somehow, nothing matters but the moment – and in this moment, his besieged mind is at peace. The blades that bear the name of the one he slew for them are dismissed and he holds tight to the girl who almost died to them, as though by keeping her within his arms, he could keep this moment of peace from ending.


	17. She's got her work cut out for her

She'd known something was up when Joshua's thoughts buzzed so loudly on the way to the gym. Some kind of confrontation between her uncle and her Kal'shan; Joshua was unnerved with residual anger and fear, but also determined and hopeful. All she knew was that if it had rattled her adoptive uncle that badly, her Kal'shan had to be in a much worse state. She was glad she'd taken the extra time and effort to embroider the pants as well as finishing the shirt. Maybe, she'd thought, her devotion would distract him from whatever had happened with Joshua.

When she was ushered into the gym and saw him there, so focused on the motions of his warglaives that he didn't notice her presence, she knew it was bad. His mind was a swarm of sharp-edged thoughts whirling nearly as fast as his weapons, and she couldn't penetrate that mess enough to find out what was bothering him so badly. For lack of anything else to do, she'd gathered the crumbs and motes of his familiarity with the physical motion of the warglaives, and was making a poor attempt at reproducing the routine he spun so effortlessly through when the storm blew itself out and he noticed her.

As she'd hoped, her needlework was a pleasant distraction for him. She was able to slip inside his mind and find that well-armored object as it opened slightly to reveal the hope that he could share his knowledge with her, pass on everything he knew. He was looking for a student to inherit his teachings, and he hoped she would prove worthy where all others had failed him. Gently, gently she'd pried away the last doubts that clung to his trust of her. Equally gently, she'd brushed at the bruised trust with the balm of her loyalty.

Then something went wrong.

Instead of being relieved and elated at her devotion, the broken machinery of his mind lurched into self-destructive action. She could see the intent to drive her away, to suffer alone – but she wasn't about to let that happen. He was her Kal'shan, and whether he knew it or not, this was one of the duties that she'd taken upon herself when he tacitly accepted her for consideration.

She'd set the blades down and pressed herself against him, frantically gelling anything in his mind that moved before he could hurt himself more – and it worked. He has her in his arms now, and his mind weeps with relief from the pain. Quickly, because she doesn't know when she'll have this chance again, she reinforces the barricades that had almost broken and slips behind them to see what he's kept hidden.

It's like walking into a gallery crowded with the entire history of Nathrezim conquest. Horrors upon horrors tear at her, rooms and tunnels and layers of abuse, geological strata crying out for help, each torment buried beneath the ones that followed. Even Nathrezim-trained as she is, jaded to the sort of injuries that can be inflicted on a vulnerable mind, this sickens her.

Deeper and deeper she goes, down through all the layers of the subconscious, each one just as crowded with broken memories and walled-away agonies, until she reaches the relative quiet of the Terminal Boundary. In a normal mind, this would be a twilight tundra of nightmares that haunt the cultural subconscious, but his is abandoned – and so thickly littered with shards of thought that a section of the Terminal Boundary isn't visible at all. She pokes at the resilient surface that keeps his mind from bleeding out into the Void, and the shards…do not shift.

Something is wrong, very wrong.

She takes a closer look at the shards and discovers that where they are clustered the thickest, they seem to be jammed into the Boundary itself. This is moderately terrifying to her, as every little dreadlord is taught that puncturing the Terminal Boundary will lead to the death of your subject. She wishes she could show this to some of her teachers and find out more; there are what look to be scars on the resilient membrane, and traces of foreign energy. For a moment, academic excitement overwhelms the horror. If the Terminal Boundary can be healed, this could be a breakthrough in Nathrezim Control Techniques. A few seconds of searching rewards her with a shard of memory that looks to have the same foreign energy on it; she touches it to live the memory and see if she can find out what happened.

…_land on my right side, thorns biting into me from the vines that have me bound. Brother…he did this to me. How DARE he? I'll show him, I'll- _

_I struggle, but the vines have me bound too tight; I can't break free. Then a silver light shines on my not-eyes. I look up and see _her._ Tyrande, my heart. She comes closer, cloaked in the mantle of Elune's power. So beautiful. Even more beautiful this way than when I had my own eyes. I want to tell her-_

_The silvery power of Elune strengthens, rises slightly, and takes the form of a night elf woman who looks at me with-_

_-I don't need your pity! I am-_

_The world turns silver and shatters._

She withdraws from the Terminal Boundary, slips back up through the layers of the subconscious, sealing each one behind a wall of her own making as she does. It's going to take months, probably years, to fix all this damage, and although he seems more inclined to repress than dig around, she really doesn't want to take that chance. It's a miracle he's still as sane as he is – literally. She could tell from the memory that his mind was already bleeding into the Void, and it's not hard to see that somehow, the broken bits had been used to dam the hole. Deities are not unheard of, and she has no doubt that the goddess of his people intervened and patched him up. For what reason, she does not know – and barring a visit to that world, she never will. Back in his conscious mind now, she again reinforces the barricades before she slips out entirely. The gel is wearing off, and as much as she's enjoying him holding her like this, she has to move very carefully so that this incident doesn't make him feel as vulnerable and helpless as he was.

Nothing in any of her classes prepared her for this. She was in the top five for Creative Reconstruction and Structural Alteration, but where do you start rebuilding if everything is broken? For a second, she panics. There's too much damage! The gel is wearing off, the broken pieces are starting to move, he'll hurt himself again and she can't just keep him gelled forever, they have to be able to move so she can sort things out and fix them, but every motion just causes more damage…

Wait. The cushioning foam often used to disguise clumsy intrusions, and to numb the awareness of alteration. It fills in the gaps between altered structures. Maybe, if she uses that, she can get a sense for how the broken machinery should move, and start repairing it. Quickly, she fills his mind with the anesthetic and slips out of his slackened embrace as awareness returns to him.


	18. Baby steps

When the moment of peace finally ends, he opens his eyes and watches as his-

What is she to him? More than just his supposed 'tame demon', certainly. Has she proven herself enough for him to truly think of her as his champion? Dare he invite more disappointment by calling her his student? He dismisses the whole question forcibly, less irritated at himself than he would normally be.

Whatever she is to him, she's calmly picking up the warglaives he had made for her as though nothing had happened. She looks at him, concern written clearly on her features for a few seconds before her expression clears and she tilts her head to one side, glaives lifting slightly in a tentative motion.

"You said we'd start with the basics...?"

It is as though she has anticipated his desire to put the last several minutes behind him, to pretend they never happened. She's not hiding that she saw it, just not making a scene about it. There is no weeping or fussing, no uncomfortable questions, no pity or disdain. Just...discretion.

An emotion he is unaccustomed to feeling sweeps through him, blissfully free of the darker emotions that harry him nearly constantly. After a moment, he names it: gratitude.

"Yes," he says, fully aware that his past is not tormenting him for the time being, and unwilling to receive a venomed bite should he check that particular gift horse for fangs. "The basics. You performed admirably for a novice, but you have a long way to go."

"Teach me, Kal'shan," she says, so very determined to please him. She knows it will be difficult, and it does not dissuade her. Perhaps she will be worthy after all.

The desire to be gentle with her wars with the need to push her as hard as he can to ensure that if she can survive his training, she can survive anything...but both are muted, easily dismissed. Likewise, the razor-edged tangle of fear/guilt/insecurity that he is not as good a teacher as he thinks he should be - this, too, can be ignored, and he does. No doubt they will return to punish him later, but for now, he can forget what he was and simply be who he is. Repression has served him well for over ten thousand years, his most loyal servant, and it performs its task again now.

The Warglaives of Azzinoth come at his command, their weight a familiar comfort.

"Pay close attention," he says. "You start like this..."

She watches eagerly as he demonstrates each motion, absorbing the knowledge he practically hurls at her. This would never have worked with any of her teachers, particularly her Infiltration teacher - what purpose would the class serve if students were just handed the answers? - but this is different. He _wants_ her to know this, but he is aware of the barrier that his halting explanations place between his knowledge and her understanding and as a result, he is thinking very loudly. It's simplicity itself to gather up the years of familiarity and commit them to memory.

With knowledge practically handed to her, she is able to spare enough mental resources to watch his mind function with the aid of the anesthetic foam. She takes note of which pieces are trying to connect to each other and marks them as being the first ones she'll fix - if she ever gets a chance, that is. Right now, she can get a vague idea of what his mind must have looked like before...whatever it was...happened to break him so thoroughly. That's another thing she'll need to look into if she ever gets the chance.

At his command, she repeats the motions he showed her. Slow and awkward as she is with her whole body still sore, her progress still pleases him. His reserved approval makes her determined to ignore her pain, makes her want to keep going until she falls over again - but no, he told her to tell him when she needs a break. The demonstrate-and-repeat pattern gives her enough breathing room that she's not being exhausted like she was when they were sparring, and she is able to keep going without sacrificing pride for health. As she finishes demonstrating the latest series of movements, she catches a flash of proprietary concern behind his impassive demeanor and nearly loses her concentration entirely to the elation that floods her. She's done it! She's managed to utterly defeat the fear that she'll betray him, and he sees her now as someone who belongs to him. Someone who he is responsible for.

Someone to protect.

She is actually disappointed when he calls a halt and announces that they're done for the day, despite the way her muscles are threatening open revolt. An amused smile flickers briefly on his lips, making her breath catch.

"Can I take them back and practice on my own?" The words spill out in a rush, warglaives hugged to her chest.

He glowers, to all appearances furious, but his mind shrieks surprised pleasure, pride, and concern. "No. Once you have demonstrated more proficiency and greater stamina, I will arrange for you to have one hour here a day unsupervised, but no more than that without my presence. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my Kal'shan."

She places the blades in the flat closet built into one wall, as directed, and covers herself in her human seeming. From behind her, a flash of irritation - but when she turns around, he is in his own disguise and she is not certain whether the annoyance was at her illusions, or his.

_Student,_ he thinks as he ushers her towards the door. _Definitely student._


	19. As close to 'thank you' as he can get

Joshua is leaning against the wall when the door opens, having been there long enough to catch his breath but not long enough to have gotten bored yet. Tessa is walking under her own power, he is pleased to note. She still looks like she'd been pushed too hard, but she's absolutely radiating joy and – is the Warlord _smiling?_ No, but he certainly looks pleased, which is equally baffling.

Judging by the frantic impassive glances the guards are throwing around, Joshua is not the only one to think so.

"Bring my demon to her chambers and report to my office immediately." The Warlord makes a halfhearted effort to growl the words, but they almost sound more like a purr.

When Joshua does not start moving immediately, his adoptive niece rolls her eyes, grins, and starts walking without him. The guards follow, forcing Joshua along with them. No one says anything on the trip back. The guards give him unfriendly looks as soon as she slips inside the door, so he leaves for his Lord's office with his curiosity unsatisfied.

The Warlord is waiting impatiently when Joshua slips through the door, one hand held out for the amulet, which is surrendered and promptly returned to its usual place around the bigger man's neck.

"Are you angry with me, my Lord?" Joshua asks quietly.

He seems to be thinking about it, rolling the idea over in his mind. "No," he says finally. "You spoke truly, and bravely. I value that. Was there any difficulty in getting what I specified?"

Joshua rolls his eyes. "Only in that my mother kept going on about how she thinks you're mistreating Tessa. She's…a bit over-protective," he continues hurriedly. "She means well, but she still thinks of Tessa in human terms. I got to hear a stream of nagging about how she's sure Tessa's wasting away without home-cooked meals and that the cookies will ruin her appetite before dinner."

He frowns. "Tessa's favorite baked treats are…baked by your mother?"

"Oatmeal-raisin cookies, fresh from the oven. They should still be warm." Driven by a sudden impulse, he adds, "If you check the security feed, I'm sure you'll be able to see how much she enjoys them."

Even though Joshua half-expected it, he is still surprised to see the Lord's aborted turn to the screen on his desk, and the brief look of – yearning? – before he turns resolutely back to his underling.

"There will be time for that later. Right now, while my-" he pauses, considering words. "-good mood lasts, I wish to discuss with you the best way to publicly introduce the world to my tame demon. My goal is to eventually have her accepted place be at my side, and without any illusions."

The way he paused before saying 'good mood' makes Joshua wonder what exactly happened in that 'training' session – and if he really wants to know. "Is your intent to make her presence a show of strength, my Lord?"

"Do I want to flaunt her as a weapon? No." He gives Joshua an unnerving grin. "I will not hesitate to use her as such if the need arises, but I do not wish to tip my hand like that just yet. No, I want what you had – a well-controlled curiosity."

"In that case, I suggest you arrange a brief tour to introduce her to your ministers, and let the ministers know that you have a tame demon. That's what I did, only with my bosses and co-workers since, obviously, I don't have any ministers. Just let them know that she exists, then give them time to get used to that. Keep it all very casual."

"Excellent. You may go. Oh, and Joshua?"

Halfway to the door, Joshua freezes. "Yes, my Lord?"

"I trust you will continue to speak honestly and bravely should the need arise. I _am_ aware that I can be…" He trails off, searching for the right words. "I am aware that sometimes, I need to hear it," he says finally. The first buzzing stings of irritation and familiar anger scrape across his psyche, and he can feel his expression twist into a glower. "Go," he snaps suddenly. " My good mood is fading."

Joshua goes.


	20. He sees more than you would think

Late that night, unable to sleep with the incessant swarm of anger, pain, and self-doubt louder than ever, he returns to his office and rewinds the security feed. He watches, strangely envious, as she uncovers the plate of cookies and squeals with joy. She eats a few in rapid succession, comments of 'still warm' and 'so good' slipping out between bites. Despite her fatigue, she hugs herself and dances around a bit, and when she stops, she is facing the recording device. She used seemingly random motion to hide the fact that she knew where the watching eye was concealed.

_Clever girl_.

"_Thank you so much! These are my favorite."_ The words are in the language of his people.

He pauses the recording and just gazes at her smile for a long minute. He is unaware that one finger is caressing her image on the screen until he sees the talon at the end of it and realizes he has let his illusions slip. They are restored with a snarl as he looks around to ensure that no one who may have seen that lives to speak of it, but the office is empty. As it should be. Anger and irritation surge through him, each one feeding off of the other. He recognizes this spiral of dark emotions and knows from long years of experience that only physical exertion will break the cycle.

He goes to the gym.

With the Warglaives of Azzinoth dancing at his command, slaying imaginary foes, he is able to think again. He's not a fool; he knows that something happened today. How long had it been since he'd been granted a respite from his hatred, his pain? Sometimes, back in the beginning of his torment, dancing with his blades would provide that release – but that hadn't worked in thousands of years. The memory of hands on his horns is dragged roughly forward, examined for hidden fangs.

Yes…that was a brief respite from his self-torment. Nothing like he experienced today, whatever _that_ was, but still… He frowns, blades slicing unseen foes. Both times, her touch brought relief – but not simply physical contact. No, nor did it happen when it was he who initiated it. Is it something she is doing – to him?

For the space of a breath he is filled with terror that she might betray him, panic struggling to push her smile out of the deepest parts of his mind. He clings to the memory of her flawless interrogation, holds tight to protect his fragile sanity as he slices the fear and panic into imaginary ribbons.

He wonders what will happen the day the storm finally sweeps him away into the sea of madness that has tried to reclaim him for more than ten thousand years. What will he do to her? Will he make her a prisoner in truth, and repay his jailor's "kindness" on her innocent flesh?

Will he kill her?

The rhythm of his wardance falters. He stops, eyes closed tightly, as though by doing so he could squeeze the thoughts out of his mind. Slowly, he begins the motions again, focusing solely on the movement until the blades again whirl at his usual speed.

If these brief moments of freedom from himself are something she is doing, then she is valuable to him as more than just a student. For the first time since the door of his prison closed behind-

_Whirl. Cut. Block. Slice. Turn._

For the first time since the door of his prison closed, his blind eyes have caught a glimpse of freedom. True freedom, not just the ability to change the location from which he struggles with the shackles of hatred and pain. If she _is_ doing something to bring him temporary relief, then he will let her keep doing that and let the repression which has served him so well deal with the rest….until he is free, of course. _Then,_ there will be a reckoning and she will be held accountable for her actions. But until then…

He chuckles, the sound echoing down from the ceiling to be swallowed up by the rubber that coats the floor. Until then, he will turn a _blind eye_ to whatever it is she may be doing.


	21. In which he tastes her baked goods

The last time he'd been that vulnerable in her presence, he'd needed several days to recover enough to face her again. Yesterday was much worse than that first time, so she expected that it would be a while before he visited her next.

She was wrong.

After the unexpected delight of Grandma's oatmeal-raisin cookies – _still warm!_ – she'd settled down for a long night of music and trying to make sense of the broken chaos that was his mind. She'd snacked on cookies, identified the pieces that looked easiest to fix, gone to bed at an unholy hour of the morning, and slept until sometime in the afternoon. After an indulgent bath and a change into clean clothes, she was cheerfully raiding what was left of the cookies when from the door-

"You'll spoil your appetite."

She whirls at the deadpan delivery, sees him with his arms crossed, one human eyebrow arching slightly. "Illidan!" Her cheeks burn. "I mean…my Kal'shan."

He frowns reflexively at the unexpected exclamation. Hearing his name from her lips hurts significantly less than he'd expected it would, most likely because of the obvious _delight_ with which it was uttered. When was the last time anyone was _delighted_ to see him? Absently, he forms his constant irritation into a mental fist and strikes the skeletal hope stirring in its grave. To his satisfaction, it collapses and remains silent. He does not need the complication of a hope that will only be crushed eventually anyway.

"No need to apologize," he says as he shrugs out of the confinement of human form, "It _is_ my name, after all." He is pleased to see that she sheds her disguise just as quickly.

She turns back to the leftover baked goods, trying to get her blush under control. He doesn't seem offended by her lack of formality, at least. Taking a deep breath, she turns back to him and offers him the cookie she's holding.

"Try one! They're good." She demonstrates by taking a bite from the cookie in her other hand.

"But…" he trails off, one hand half outstretched for the cookie.

She shrugs. "I know we don't need to eat food, but they're tasty, and-" she breaks off the sentence and gives him a look of wounded hope. "You _have_ been eating _something_, right?"

He takes the cookie and bites into it, unwilling to disappoint her further by answering the question. This does not fool her, however.

"Kal'shan!" The indignant exasperation makes him smile around the mouthful of oatmeal and raisins. She scrambles for her cable and holds the nozzle out imperiously. "Drink."

The cookie is better than he thought it would be. He chews lazily, amused by her attitude. She knows he could crush her if he so chose, and she still dares to tell him what he should do. Such impertinence would normally enrage him, and yet…there's no hostility in it. As he's debating whether or not he'll give her the satisfaction, her expression softens to something more vulnerable.

"I drank for you," she says softly, and his amusement vanishes.

Once again he relives those horrible moments: the realization that she wouldn't get her blade up in time to block his strike, the metal falling from her grip even as his blade continued its path towards her midsection, the frantic effort to pull his blow. Knowing that he was going too fast, the blade was going to cut her – and then, like a miracle he was unworthy to receive, the only thing that saved her: her collapse away from his blade. The muffled sound of her body hitting the floor, the knowledge that there was no way he could have her cable brought to him without revealing anything. The light fixture sacrificed in desperation for its copper wire, the terror that not even that would revive her.

He swallows the suddenly-flavorless cookie and reaches for the cable. The electricity tastes of stale lemons and copper, but it satisfies a tiny fraction of the gnawing hunger that's been with him for almost as long as he can remember, and her smile makes it taste sweeter. He hands the cable back after only a few seconds, but she looks satisfied. Perhaps she thinks that once he felt the energy streaming into him, he would not continue his self-imposed fast. If so, she is absolutely correct. He is already planning to acquire something he can use to drink in the energy his body has been craving. But in the meantime…

"Raise your arms," he says in a tone that allows no argument. She complies, and he glares at each limb for several seconds. "Good. No trembling."

Her look of confusion evaporates under the dawning of hope. "May I-"

His smirk cuts her words off mid-sentence. "You may."

_Yes,_ he thinks as he settles into an armless chair. _This will be a fine test of exactly how valuable you are to me, my little tiger-by-the-tail. _The glow of his eyes follows her from behind the cloth that veils them. She is just a cub, but even the young of such a great cats are often stronger and more dangerous than they are expected to be by those taken in by soft fur and playful innocence. He has seen her claws in action; he will not make the mistake of underestimating her.

It doesn't take her long to return with a soft cloth and a bottle of oil that has a clean, slightly spicy scent. She pours a little oil onto the cloth, then pauses and searches his face for a long moment. No doubt she wonders if this is another trap; that thought gives him a pang of regret.

"It's really okay?" she asks softly, the words threatening to turn his regret into full-fledged self-blame.

"It's really okay," he replies, his voice equally soft in the only apology he can bring himself to give.

He closes what passes for his eyes, swats away the fleeting wish that he still had something able to generate tears, and then his thoughts still as the cloth moves slowly up his right horn. The scent of the oil distracts him, and the soothing upwards stroke quiets everything but the awareness of how good this feels. She alternates her strokes, running the cloth first up one horn, then the other, and slowly, slowly, he falls into a sort of tracelike relaxation. It is like sleep, only better; there are no nightmares to worry at him. He forgets all the pain that being awake brings, forgets even the memory of that pain, forgets that there was ever anything but drifting in this silent corner of his own mind.


	22. I love the dramatic irony here

Slowly, reverently, the soft cloth slides up one glossy black horn. He sighs as the last knot of tension in his mind relaxes. She pauses to lightly oil her palms, then takes one horn in each hand and resumes the soothing motion. The majority of his mind is swathed in veils and anesthetic foam, keeping the broken bits gently restrained. Unlike previous forays into this twisted mindscape, she is actually attempting reconstruction this time, and it's making her nervous. It's one thing to patch up a pre-broken subject while your teacher and classmates watch, ready to mock you for the slightest mistake. It's quite another thing entirely to piece together the mind of a man whose trust has been broken so many times that he will not hesitate to kill you if he suspects that you're hiding something like this from him.

The shattered machinery she'd marked earlier is easy to find. Some of the pieces fit together easily and can be lightly coated in sealant. Some are missing fragments and need a bonding filler to make their edges meet. A handful are so badly warped out of true that she just stares at them for a long minute, hands working mechanically to keep him relaxed, and tries to think about what her Reconstruction teacher would have done. Finally, she just wraps veils around them and marks them so that she can check later and see if they'll stretch on their own to reconnect with the fixed bits. It's a good start, but looking at how much is still damaged fills her briefly with despair. Unless he lets her do this on a regular basis – and he'd pretty much have to both know and _be okay_ with it to let her keep doing this, and how likely is _that_? – then she doubts she'll ever get enough fixed that she can start to address the horrific mess walled away.

Well, maybe she can get some of the poisonous emotional toxic sludge cleaned up. 'Shan'do' is easy to locate, despite being tucked behind other things. It's putting out tendrils that twine around just about anything in reach and oozing pain and hatred. Unfortunately, it's also anchored quite firmly into the floor of his conscious mind and there's no way to remove it without causing serious harm. She layers it with veils to try to sop up some of the acidic hate and follows its roots behind one of the walls…

…and follows them _right back out_ because by all the twists in the Nether, that's the most toxic jungle of nightmare and resentment she's ever even _read_ about. And it's leaking. That, at least, she can take care of. Some sealant, some rigid veiling, and he'll be hard-pressed to get into the festering cache of millennia-old pain. Not that he really has much of a shortage of that, with the Shan'do nodule sending roots everywhere.

It occurs to her that she doesn't know who this "Shan'do" is. She knows it is a title, and that whoever is behind the title has a lot to answer for – but with how vague he was about his past, she has no more information than that. She touches the nodule, dips her mental finger into the stream of vitriol-

A slideshow assaults her mind, thousands of rapidly-flickering images of an armored female figure alternating with a younger male, purple skin the same shade as his, facial features nearly identical, and hair that is sometimes blue and sometimes green. Ten thousand years of hearing the title uttered with every variation of longing and devotion by a woman who hates him with a passion beyond fanaticism and adores his…brother?

Her blood runs cold and the rhythm of her hands falters. His _brother_ did that to him? Left him at the mercy of that…that…

Words fail her. Creativity fails her. An entire culture steeped in torment and violation fails her. She hasn't even delved into his actual memories to see what she did to him, but this nodule…she knows what it is, now. She's seen tiny ones in some of her classes. When an ordinary mind-wound is repeatedly violated, the mind is forced to form scar tissue there in self-defense. If the violations continue, the scar tissue becomes a sort of tumor. For there to be one of this size, the abuse had to have spanned the entire length of time he was imprisoned, and she is completely unable to think of a punishment that could ever come close to atoning for the things he suffered at her hands.

She hopes, for his brother's sake, that his jailer hid her crimes and that this Shan'do Stormrage is ignorant to the things he allowed her to do to her prisoner. He'd still have to suffer for what he allowed her Kal'shan to be put through if he ever crossed her path, but he'd suffer a lot less that way. Not even the most heartless dreadlords in the entire history of Nathrezene had been _that_ cruel, even to a blood relation. _Especially_ to a blood relation.

A horrible suspicion sprouts in her mind. She has to know. Did he-?

"Illidan?" She brings her hands town to clutch at each other but remains within his mind, watching as the mended machinery moves hesitantly and the broken machinery, jerkily. After such enforced relaxation, his mind wakes up slowly.

"Hn?" He opens his eyes, blinking once or twice before seeming to see her.

She licks her lips. "Why do you wear a blindfold?"

The walls she has built hold under his reflexive motion towards the repressed memories. Combined with the lingering effects of the veils, his reply is uncannily calm. "Force of habit. That, and apparently my 'absence of proper eyes' is 'unsightly'."

Motion in his mind directs her attention to one side, where another trauma-tumor pulses. Interestingly, this one is not nearly as malignant as the one caused by his brother. "But…don't Kal'dorei eyes glow?"

"They do."

A memory wriggles its way past one barricade.

"However, my actual eyes had been-"

She reaches out to push it back.

…_.on my back, straps restraining my limbs. Dark shapes, horned shapes looming over me, dark laughter and casual taunts in a language I do not know. My chest burns, my arms burn. Like demonic snakes, writhing beneath my skin, burrowing deeper into me. I can feel madness welling up in me. One of the demons reaches out, talons glowing dimly, and I try to jerk away but the straps hold. A command, and clawed hands hold my head still, peel my eyelid up. The claws come closer, as though the demon were going to pluck out my- No! No no no no __no-no-no-no-no-no-no-no NOOOOAAAAAAAAAUGH!_

_Pain unlike anything else, searing, pulling, burrowing into my left eye socket, down into my brain, and suddenly I can't breathe. My lungs heave, but there's no air and the pain burns its way down into my throat, my heart, my lungs, tugging and pulling at my sanity, pulling me closer to the madness that laps at me. But then the pain flares through my lungs, my chest, my arms and the demonic snakes surge up my throat, into my brain, into my left eye and the world seethes with colors that have no name. I close my eye, but the colors are still there, searing my mind, hissing against the sea of insanity that I strain towards, my only refuge, but I am pulled back._

"_Oh no, pretty elf," one of the dreadlords growls at me, befouling my language with his vile tongue. "We're not through with you just yet. You still have another eye…"_

She pulls away, out of his mind, before her horror can bleed into him, and nervously licks her lips again. "…may I see them?" She wouldn't have put it past a man who would do _that_ to his own blood, and while she's relieved that his brother hadn't blinded him, the terrible nature of the memory that got loose more than overwhelms the relief.

Something grinds almost audibly in his mind, making her wonder what broke – but his defenses snap closed and he stands up slowly, closing his eyes as he does so. "As much as I want to say 'no'…" He brings his hands up to the cloth, unties it reluctantly, and hesitates briefly before lowering it.

If she weren't so absorbed with seeing his unadorned face for the first time, she might have noticed that his hands tremble as they grip the cloth, clenching and twisting it anxiously.

Eyes still closed, he speaks again. "Are you absolutely sure you want to see them?" Although he's trying to keep all emotion out of his voice, it is still low and rough without being a growl.

It is his tone that finally alerts her to the gravity of what she has asked, and with equal gravity she answers him, "I am."

"This..." He shudders briefly as though steeling himself, then opens his eyelids to reveal brilliant balls of green flame burning within his otherwise hollow eye sockets. "This is why I wear a blindfold."


	23. He didn't see this coming

It is not until he blinks that she realizes she has been staring like - well, like a silly teenager brought face to face with her idol. Unfortunately, this realization does not bring verbal coherency with it, and he's giving her a puzzled look.

"I like your eyes," she blurts out, then blushes. _Really, Tessa? That's the best you can do? Ohhh, he's going to think you're the lamest-_

"...you do?" He's thrown so off-balance by this unexpected development that he forgets to grip the cloth anxiously, and it flutters unnoticed to the floor. "You are not...just saying that?"

"Oh yes," she breathes absently, once more lost in trying to memorize his face. "I wouldn't lie to _you." _With a mental shake, she forces herself to focus on _him, _not just his eyes. "They're not so different from Nathrezim eyes..." She trails off, once more staring intently, but without the idolization this time.

He blinks in confusion as she frowns thoughtfully at him, then lays one hand on his chest and goes on hoof-tip to get a better look. The fingers of her other hand lightly trace the skin around his eye. He is torn between outrage at such familiarity, and - well, he's refused to acknowledge such things in so long that he can't put a name to the emotions, but she's _touching_ him, and there's no fear or disgust. Does he really want to discourage that?

"...How long have your eyes been like this?"

The question drags his attention away from her fingers against his skin. "Over ten thousand years."

"And you were starved for most of that," she says calmly, still inspecting his eye sockets.

He goes rigid beneath her hand. "How...could you tell?"

"Your eyes." She settles back on the floor, reluctantly removing her hand from his chest. His mind is still closed tight, and she hopes that there's not _too_ much new damage in there. "They _are_ Nathrezim eyes, but they're too small, like your soul can't support their full shape." She tries to smile at him, but it dies. "Like you haven't taken in enough energy in a long, long time."

The brief look of pain that flashes into being and is repressed makes her very, very glad that she reinforced those walls, and she can feel something inside her shifting. Like the day she fought him to exhaustion, she would do anything, _anything_ to ease his pain.

"I'd spent part of that imprisoned..." He closes his eyes, willing everything back behind its wall, and completely misses his pain being reflected on her face. "At any rate, where were we?"

She frantically beats her own reaction back, searching for a safe topic, and sees the black cloth lying forgotten on the floor. Reverently, she picks it up and smooths it out. "I'll understand if you're more comfortable wearing this," she says softly as he opens his eyes again, "but you don't have to hide them from me." Cheeks darkening in a furious blush, she holds the cloth out hesitantly and forces herself to look at his chest so as to not get lost in his eyes.

For a long minute he just looks at her in baffled disbelief that she seems to actually _like_ his utter lack of 'proper eyes'. Finally, he takes the cloth and ties it around his head again. She looks up at him as he does, not quite hiding a flash of disappointment. A tiny part of him feels bad that he's disappointing her, but the majority of what he feels once his eyes are again covered is relief. This is going to take a lot of time in the gym to sort out, he thinks, trying to figure out what the proper response in this situation is. If it were anyone else...but it's not.

She likes his eyes. Instead of turning from him in disgust, in horror, this has only strengthened the hero-worship he was sure would shatter beneath the weight of the unholy abominations lodged in his eye sockets. What could he say to that? What words could ever express the painful relief now wedged in his throat? Hope twitches weakly, buried as it is beneath a pile of its slain predecessors. She will not betray him. She does not see him as a monster. Maybe...

He lunges forward suddenly, surprise making her pull her wings in close against her back. His arms go around her almost without his conscious direction, wings and all, and she stands absolutely still in shock. As she slowly relaxes against him, one thought whispers pasts the iron will that is otherwise keeping his mind empty of all conscious thought.

_I won't let this turn to ashes in my claws. _


	24. Hug deficiency is a terrible thing

She'd like to think that he's holding her for mushy teenage fantasy reasons, but the whirling storm of blade-thoughts protecting his mind says differently. Whatever's going on behind that barrier, it can't be good – not with how tightly he's holding her. She's not objecting, though. She stopped getting hugs from her grandmother when she was five, and physical contact was scarce after that.

_I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here._ She wafts gentle reassurance at his mind, diffuse enough that the bladestorm barrier doesn't just shred it. _I'll never betray you. I'll never leave you._ She relaxes against him, letting him feel her trust in the lines of her body. _I know what it's like to have no one care enough to touch you._ His arms shift slightly, from clinging to holding. _You are the star around which my whole world revolves._

After what seems like an hour, the blades suddenly slow to a stop and retract. In a flash, she is inside his defenses and frantically checking his mind for new damage. Several new barricades have gone up, and inside them is…fear? He's isolated the fear-juggernaut built from the ruins of past hopes, the fear that he somehow ruins everything he touches, and trapped it behind jagged walls of bitter self-loathing. On the one hand, she's dreadfully impressed by his ability to improvise a coping mechanism with his mind so broken. On the other hand, seeing how much he hates himself makes her want to cry for him. Aside from the barriers, however, there doesn't seem to be any new damage. She pets his sense of responsibility like a dog pierced with crystal shards, brushing at one of the bleeding parts with _I'll never leave you_. It whines slightly in confused relief.

She wants to pull that fragment of broken dream out, to patch the hole with _I'll never leave _you and toss the fragment behind the barrier along with his fear, but she's afraid to make too many changes at once. He's already proved that his mind doesn't follow the normal rules. She almost pities any dreadlord who might have feigned servitude to him in attempts to infiltrate his mind and reverse the positions of power. Almost, except that the thought of another dreadlord trespassing on his mind brings with it that internal shift to _I would do anything_ that makes her feel like she could be a weapon for him to command if only-

-well, she's not entirely sure how that thought was going to end. For now, it's enough to realize that she feels _very_ territorial about his mind. Even though there are no other Nathrezim on this world, and virtually no chance that any will come here, the haphazard defenses of his mind make her nervous.

_New plan for the week,_ she thinks. _Design a set of defenses to construct and place around his mind_.

She slips out of his mind again as he releases her and steps back. For a moment, he seems to be bracing for something, but she tilts her head in a silent question and he relaxes again.

"I will not return for two days." The words are not quite an apology. "I have informed my ministers that the process of bonding a tame demon to a new master is lengthy, but that it is nearly complete. In two days, my cabinet will assemble and you will accompany me before the meeting. You will be introduced to each one. I expect you to be silent and reserved, in keeping with the fiction that you are, indeed, tame."

Her demeanor shifts, and she looks up at him demurely. "Like this, Kal'shan?"

"Yes, like that. You will remain in these rooms for a while longer, leaving only under my orders, until you are no longer a curiosity. However, Joshua can bring you anything you may need. I will send him by in the morning."

Elation makes her face light up. She beams at him, like he's just given her some priceless treasure, and he wonders what she has planned – but the abnormally good mood he's somehow maintained makes it hard for him to be apprehensive. As unusual as it is for him, he trusts her. He needs to get going, though, if he's going to have any chance of examining this afternoon's events before they wear off.

One hand drifts up to tentatively feel the surface of his horns. They do feel smoother and, presumably, more attractive to one who is accustomed to such things. He's not sure how he feels about that.

"How often should horns be oiled?" he asks idly. He does not miss the expression on her face; she has the look of someone seeing an opportunity too good to pass up, and grabbing it with both hands.

"Once a week."

He makes a noncommittal sound. "Two days," is all he says.

She watches calmly as he dons his disguise and leaves, but once the door has closed behind him, she flings herself onto the couch and presses a throw pillow against her face to muffle her groan.

Two days. What's she going to _wear?_


	25. The ocean is extra salty today

In the rubber-floored room, the only sounds are his harsh breathing and the Warglaives of Azzinoth slicing through the air.

She took the bait, as he expected she would, and wasted no time in doing…whatever it was. Perhaps he should be concerned about what _else_ she may have been doing while he was drifting in mindless peace, but the temporary relief is too tempting to give up without solid evidence that she is doing anything harmful.

_It wouldn't be the first time I've made a deal with a demon,_ he thinks with the slightest hint of bitterness. _At least Tessa doesn't seem to want anything from me._

It's…endearing, watching her youthful enthusiasm, and even in the privacy of his mind it is a struggle to admit that. After ten thousand years of the slightest hint of weakness resulting in more torments and abuse, the desire to deny any affection is nearly as strong as the desire _for_ affection. That train of thought is cut off abruptly before it can wake anything in the pile of slain hopes. She doesn't look at him in horror or disgust; that's more than enough for now.

He returns to his self-examination, gently prodding at the things he'd done his best to wall away. There is a curious reluctance to think about his imprisonment past the acknowledgment that it occurred. Much better, much more preferable to having even that much result in a flood of memories and pain. He doubts it will last, however. That thought brings a surprisingly sharp stab of despair. He'd become so accustomed to being in constant emotional torment that he hadn't realized until just now how heavy that burden really was.

He doesn't want to go back.

All the old claustrophobia comes rushing back and he pours himself into the routine, forcing himself to concentrate on each movement until the panic recedes. He is _not_ in a cage. _Except that of his mind_, a little nagging voice whispers. He is _not_ being tormented by a cruel jailer. _Except his past_, the voice whispers.

The warglaives come to a stop. Only his panting breaths break the silence. The wistful longing for functional tear ducts returns, and with an effort he pushes it away.

He doesn't want to go back. This glimpse of freedom is a greater torment than any he's endured simply because he knows it won't last. Sweeter than the long-vanished waters of Eternity, and more heady than the rush of power they brought. Once a week, she'd said, and he did not miss the eager look on her face. As though he'd unwittingly played right into her hands.

Could he do it?

The question of whether or not he will allow her to…_oil his horns_…is dismissed. For even this brief a taste of freedom, he would personally lead an army of demons back to the forest he once slew them to cleanse. No, the question is whether or not he can face six days of torment and agony for the promise of temporary relief on the seventh. The effects from this session haven't even worn off, and already he wants-

No.

The blades begin their deadly dance again. This will _not_ defeat him, not after all the other enemies that failed to. He smiles grimly, remembering bitterly cold winds and an equally cold blade that nearly took his life, but no – he survived, where no other victim of that blade did. He may have lost the fight, but not even the little human who would become the Lich King was able to defeat him. He will _not_ be defeated by himself. _He_ is the master, not his pain, and his oh-so-eager Champion will be the weapon with which he slays that particular foe.

Yes…she will be a fine weapon, but he will have to be very careful. He trusts her, but he will not, absolutely cannot, surrender the slightest bit of his authority over her. Not that she seems to want him to, with how happy she looks any time he exerts it. A minion who is not only loyal, but content to remain a minion? Certainly not something he'd ever expected Fate would hand to him.

He chuckles. Maybe his continued torment has softened the cold heart of Fate and he is being rewarded at last? He can't think of any other reason why she would have inexplicably chosen _him_. She's already shown him more kindness than he deserves, and every indication is that she will continue to do so, and happily.

If he ever has the opportunity, he will be sure to thank her grandmother for chasing her away. The Legion's loss is his gain, unworthy as he is of her devotion. His lips curve into a bitter smile. Ah, he may not deserve her, but he will fight to the death should anyone try to take her from him. As if in response, he can feel the whatever-it-is that she did wearing off. The determination is easily turned against his usual irritation and anger, and smothers the despair as his thoughts once again fill with jagged edges and freedom recedes.

There is much to be done before he sees her again in two days, and after that, only four more before he lets her…_oil his horns_. He endured ten thousand years of Warden Shadowsong's tender mercies; he can endure six days until Tessa's gentle hands wipe those memories away again.


	26. I think we've all been this hyper once

Joshua is almost knocked off his feet as soon as the door closes.

"Uncle Josh! Uncle Josh! You're here, you're here, you're here!"

"Whoah, there." He puts his hands on the shoulders of the teenage half-demon hopping gleefully around. "You're excited this morning. What happened?"

"I didn't sleep!"

With his hands on her shoulders, he is unable to cover his face, but Joshua rolls compensates with a sigh. "Tessa, why didn't you sleep?"

"I had to plan!"

_Now I know why Mother never let her have more than six cookies at a time._ "What were you planning?"

"What to wear when Illidan introduces me to his ministers tomorrow!"

Joshua's eyes widen. "Tessa...did you just call our Lord by his name? His _real_ name?"

The hyper demon's smile falters briefly. "Oh. I shouldn't have said that. Um, just forget you heard that, okay?" She glances at the ceiling. _"If you're listening, please don't punish him. It was my fault, I'll make sure he doesn't remember if that's what you want." _She turns back to her adoptive uncle, who is doing his best to pretend he didn't just hear her speak in a language he doesn't know. "He said you could bring me anything I need...?"

"Yes," Joshua says, relieved to be on relatively safe conversational ground. "You have your own expense account. The Minister of Finance was unhappy about that. He kept going on about how you'd buy a million diamonds or something."  
_  
_She rolls her eyes. "What would I do with diamonds? If I wanted that kind of thing, I'd have it."

"I know. So what is it that you want? If you're this excited to see me, you must have something planned."

"I do! It's going to take a while, though, the standard matrix doesn't have anything remotely like what I want it to look like." She makes a spreading gesture. "What do you think?"

Joshua stares at the empty air. "Tessa...I can't see anything."

"Oh. Right. Of course you can't." Another gesture. "How about now?"

Joshua stares at the incomprehensible tangle of lines that hovers in the air. "It's a bunch of lines?"

"Exactly! I'm trying for something evocative without being too impressionistic." The lines vanish. "I wrote up what I'll need for-"

Mid-sentence, she dashes to the other side of the room and snatches a sheet of paper off the desk. Joshua takes it gingerly as she thrusts it at him. Her handwriting is messier than usual, the loops wider, the strokes more haphazard. It's also in sparkly purple ink, which strangely makes it more legible.

"I should be able to get this for you before noon-"

"Oh, oh, before you go-" She interrupts him, and then interrupts herself by dashing into her bedroom. After a moment, she dashes back out with three different red shirts in her arms. "Which one looks most like the guards' uniforms _and_ looks best on me?"

"That one," he says as she holds up a high-necked, long-sleeved button-up. "It-"

But she's not listening; she tosses the other two onto a chair and spreads the chosen garment in the air where it hangs like a crimson canvas. "I'm going to make my own, of course, but I'll need to design it and I can't possibly do that before tomorrow, but I can alter this one...how does this look? Oh, right," she says before he can protest. "You can't see it. There, now how's it look?"

Joshua blinks as black lines sprawl over the red fabric in a simplified version of the guards' uniforms. "Very nice," he says. "Is that the design you're going to use when you make your own uniform?"

She beams. "Yep! I thought If he's going to take me around like you did, I should look harmless...but he's the Warlord, it wouldn't do to just follow him around in the kind of stuff I usually wear. So then I thought if I had my own uniform, I'd sort of blend into the background."

"I think he'll be pleased with that," Joshua says, giving her a one-armed hug. A glance at the list she's given him confirms that she's requested the materials to make what looks like several copies of her proposed uniform. The other supplies must be for whatever project looked like half a dozen enormous spiderwebs wrestling.

"You really think so?"

Joshua is surprised by how much she looks like a normal teenage girl eager to impress the guy she has a crush on, rather than a half-demon eager to impress the unstable half-demon warlord she serves.

"I really think so. Tessa...I have to ask, because I'm your uncle and I care about you. Is he treating you right?"

She blinks at him, head tilted slightly to one side. "Why wouldn't he be?"

"I've seen him with his ministers." Joshua grimaces. "He expanded my position into a full department. I have a staff now, and I have to deal with the rest of his cabinet. But that means I get to see how he interacts with people who...aren't as trusted as we are. Does he yell at you? Call you names? Threaten to hurt you?"

_Not anymore! ...not since I won his trust? Yes, but that just makes him more amazing._ The thoughts flash through her mind in the time it takes her to inhale, each one discarded as she opens her mouth. "It doesn't matter what he says or doesn't say," she says calmly. "He would never hurt me." She doesn't need to peek into Joshua's mind to know that answer wasn't good enough; his face crumples with barely-restrained despair. "Uncle Jo-osh!" She rolls her eyes and whines his name. "Come _on_. I'm a _demon_. I drink _electricity_. Things are _different_ for me."

"He's not entirely stable, Tessa," Josh says resolutely. "I know that. You know that. _He_ knows that. What if he loses his temper one day and does something without meaning to?"

_It's my fault, my fault, my fault, always my fault, everything always turns out wrong._ The memory of his panicked thoughts echoes through her mind, and she represses a shudder. She knows exactly what it would do to him if he accidentally hurt her, and something inside her shifts as she contemplates that. For the moment, nothing matters but protecting him from that potential for disaster.

"I won't let that happen." The words come out as a steely hiss that falls just short of being a challenge.

Joshua suddenly remembers that his adoptive niece is, in fact, a demon who is capable of doing things he is unable to comprehend and somehow managed to walk into a meeting he was sure was suicide and come out less than a month later in the lap of luxury with her own expense account and a very dangerous man doing _nice things_ for her.

He resolves to drop the subject of her potential victimization and never bring it up again.

"I'll just go get these things for you," he says with forced nonchalance. "You should probably try to get some sleep while I'm out. You want to be well-rested for tomorrow."

"That's a good idea, Uncle Josh. Thanks!" She gives him a hug and wanders over to the couch, curls up, and is asleep in seconds.

_Teenagers,_ Joshua thinks, shaking his head. _They grow up so fast._


	27. Going through the motions

She sits, outwardly impassive. Inside, she seethes with nervous impatience. Her black slacks are clean and crisply creased, tucked into the soft black boots that hug her calves. The long-sleeved red shirt with the high neck has been meticulously embroidered in black, resembling the uniforms of the Warlord's guards without mimicking them. She half-regrets having gotten her hair permed; the dark-gold curls looked cute, but cute is not what she's going for now. A severe tail minimizes the effect, at least. Her usual floral scents have been passed over in favor of more gender-neutral ones. Today, she will be introduced to the members of the cabinet, and she does not want to seem like a teenage girl.

When the door opens, she is ready. The guard holding it open looks uncomfortable, and pretends she's not there. Past him, the Warlord waits with her amulet prominently displayed on the chest of his immaculate black suit. His mind is writhing with anxiety over the planned introductions, so busy shrieking half-strangled hopes regarding how she will act that she nearly misses the quiet note of pleasure for her appearance. It calms her own nervousness, being able to hear how he wants her to behave. All she has to do is follow these silent orders.

"Come," he commands casually. She stands and walks obediently to the door. "Follow," he says just before she passes through, and as smoothly as if it had been rehearsed, she falls into step behind him as he turns and strides down the corridor. His four guards adjust so that they are evenly spaced around her.

The stone corridors they travel down are not ones she has ever seen, but she absorbs the familiarity that drifts down from the minds of the guards and knows exactly where they are. When they stop before an ornately-bound door, one of the guards steps forward to knock briskly. The guard waits five seconds, then opens the door. Two more guards precede the Warlord, and the fourth stands vigilant in the corridor, watching for enemies.

Inside the spacious office, a thin woman stands in front of her desk and bows. "Warlord Raphael."

He scowls. "Minister of War."

The minister appears unruffled by her Lord's displeasure. There is a clear thought from her that so long as he permits her this small impertinence, she is doing her job well and need not fear his wrath. He makes a vague gesture over his shoulder, and Tessa follows his unspoken command to step forward. She bows to the minister, who gives her a once-over and a brisk nod.

"Minister of War Agnes, this is my tame demon, Jentessa."

From the tone of her public thoughts, the Minister of War seems inclined to disbelieve that this skinny little girl could be much of a threat - or a benefit. The half-demon is tempted to relax a few layers of illusion and let her eyes glow, but her Lord wants her underestimated, so she smiles blankly instead.

"I'll see you at the meeting, my Lord," the minister says coolly.

He gives the minister the same nod she gave his demon, and leads the guards back out.

The next office belongs to Minister of Finance Lawrence, who peers curiously at her. He remembers her from the day Joshua surrendered her to the Warlord, and she remembers him as well. She gives him the same beatific smile she'd worn that day, and listens as he thinks sourly that she's no doubt some under-age exotic gold-digger trading her body for the position she now occupies.

Minister of Agriculture Henry actually gives her a half-bow rather than a nod. She reminds him of one of his sister's children, and he is inclined to forget that she is a demon. The Minister of State doesn't care what she is, he just wishes he could see her without her clothes. It takes an effort to smile blankly at that one. The ministers of Justice and Defense dismiss her as harmless. Transport is sure he's being introduced to the Warlord's whore but doesn't care as long as it helps keep his temper in check. Health distrusts her completely, and she makes a note to sift through his thoughts whenever she can. The last minister she is introduced to is a quiet, dumpy lady in charge of Industry named Helen, who recognizes the harmless appearance for the act it is and respects her for it. Helen is also the only one who fully expects her to be a weapon in the Warlord's arsenal.

The walk back to her quarters is silent, but she can hear his thoughts buzz relief that she has performed up to his expectations, mixed with annoyance that he will be spending the next several hours in close proximity to his ministers. The two guards stationed at her door salute briskly as they approach, and smoothly open the door as she is gestured inside. As the door closes behind her, his mind stabs out in fear that she will misunderstand his reticence.

Driven by a whisper of intuition she does not understand, she strips out of her improvised uniform and into the shirt and pants embroidered with her name and his. She wants to work on either her uniform or the other project, but instead finds herself doing stretches and warming up. The physical activity is soothing after having kept herself so restrained for the morning, and she loses herself in the hand-to-hand routine she learned in school.


	28. Their duplicity is hardly surprising

_Sweet, merciful gods of my ancestors,_ Joshua thinks. _It's a shark pit. Why am I here?_

The Minister of War catches his eye and smirks. His eyes go a little bit wider as he catches her implication that she knew this would happen, something confirmed when she gives him a tiny nod before verbally cutting the metaphoric legs out from under the Minister of Health.

_And I thought the _start_ of this meeting was bad. No wonder she insisted on going first. _

The Warlord's cabinet meeting had started as cordially as the Warlord usually got – that is to say, snide comments and arrogance towards everyone, disparaging remarks and a general lack of respect towards the highest members of his government. The Minister of War had gone first, her report and ongoing commands dealt with in relative civility. Agriculture and Industry followed, with the discourse growing sharper, less patient, more insulting. When it came to Transportation's turn, things started getting ugly.

_They have to know his temper. Are they _trying_ to get killed?_

In horrified awe he watches as the cabinet meeting descends into anarchy and madness, personal insults and threats, screaming and growling and blatant disrespect all around. This isn't unexpected coming from the Warlord, although he's usually not _this_ bad. Most people recognize the danger and back down, however, and the ministers actually seem to be…

_No, I have to be wrong. They wouldn't._

The blood drains from Joshua's face as he realizes that the ministers are deliberately riling up their lord. He's been quiet for most of the meeting, after the first initial attempts to speak resulted in him getting verbally shot down from just about every direction. Now, he does his best to be invisible, certain that at any moment the Warlord will snap and kill them all. Any attempts at getting anything done have been abandoned in favor of an all-out verbal brawl in which nothing seems to be off-limits. The ministers do prefer insulting and accusing one another rather than taking verbal shots at their lord, the only sign of self-preservation Joshua's witnessed so far.

"At least my paramours are all adults," the minister of Justice retorts snidely after his sexual preferences have been called to everyone's attention.

State is unfazed by the implication and smiles broadly. "Well, we can't _all_ have tasty little morsels following us around like our esteemed master."

Two fists strike the table so hard it jumps. For just an instant, Joshua is certain he saw horns and wings.

"OUT OF MY SIGHT, ALL OF YOU!" The Warlord is on his feet, eyes blazing.

As though they had been waiting for this, the ministers leap to their feet and hurry towards the door, eying their Lord warily as they scurry by him. State, however, comes just a hair too close and one hand is suddenly around the flabby man's throat, squeezing, lifting the minister until his toes flail for purchase against empty air.

"You will never speak in such a way about my demon again, is that understood?"

State chokes out something that sounds like an apology, and the Warlord throws him through the doorway where he impacts Finance and Health, knocking them both down. War is the last to leave aside from Joshua, and she takes a moment to give her master a half-bow before picking her way past the tangle of limbs. Far from being placated by this gesture, the Warlord lets out a growl that chases her down the hall and makes the three ministers on the floor flail in panic, pushing and kicking at one another until they are separated enough to get to their feet and flee – or, in Finance's case, simply crawl out of sight.

Once the last minister is gone, the Warlord lets out a wordless bellow of rage and flips the table over – no mean feat, given the length and weight of the thing – then sees that Joshua is still sitting, trembling with fear, in his chair.

"I said _all_ of you," he hisses, eyes glowing green and the shadows of wicked claws gracing the ends of his fingers as he raises his hands slowly.

Joshua has no wish to be thrown out into the hall. He flees, taking refuge in an alcove some distance away to catch his breath. A few minutes later, however, the sounds of angry boots come echoing up the corridor. Joshua holds his breath and presses himself flat against the wall, and the neither the Warlord nor his four guards see him as they march past. Despite himself, he is curious as to where his Lord would go after the disastrous meeting. The echoes aren't hard to follow, and he curses his curiosity as he trails quietly after them.

When the echoes lead down the corridor that dead-ends at the Warlord's private gym, Joshua ducks back around the corner. Why is he going _there_? The gym is not the first place Joshua would have gone if he were in a murderous mindset. But then again, what does _he_ know about the way his Lord's mind works? Maybe in whatever crazy demon world he comes from where keeping teenage girls isolated for days at a time is perfectly okay, a brisk workout is exactly the thing to take your mind off the desire to kill your ministers.

"_Uncle Josh, I'm a _demon._ Things are _different_ for me!"_

"_I am aware that sometimes, I need to hear it."_

Something in those two memories clicks together, and Joshua suspects that his Lord actually _is_ trying to take his mind off of the desire to murder his ministers. If the Warlord really does know that he's unstable, this would be one of the times that he needs to hear it…but not from Josh. No, the happiest Joshua has ever seen his Lord was after he'd spent time in the gym with Tessa – and at this point, Joshua doesn't care what it is that she does with him behind those doors. Cabinet meetings that descend into screaming matches are not an effective way to govern, and he doubts his Lord really wants to be this angry at ministers he's reluctant to kill.

_This is going to be a gamble. Well, if I'm wrong, at least she's certain he won't hurt her._

Joshua heads for his niece's suite.

* * *

"I'm here to bring the Warlord his demon."

The two guards look at each other while Joshua sweats. "You don't have the amulet."

"She's fully bonded to the Warlord," Joshua lies. "The amulet is unnecessary; his word alone controls her."

They share another look. One unlocks the door while the other keeps him discreetly covered with his weapon. "If you're telling the truth, the demon will go with you. If she refuses..." The guard trails off ominously.

"Open the door," Joshua says with false confidence.

The door opens, revealing Tessa waiting on the other side, in the white outfit she'd embroidered with otherworldly runes. Joshua isn't sure whether this is reassuring or unnerving.

"In the name of the Lord you serve, you are commanded to accompany me, for he has summoned you." _Please don't argue, please don't fight this, please don't ask questions..._

"I hear and obey the words of my Lord," she says calmly, and Joshua just barely keeps himself from sighing with relief.

As she follows Joshua through the halls, she listens very intently to his buzzing thoughts, trying to figure out why he's bringing her to their Lord without orders. All she can make out is that her Kal'shan is very angry, and Joshua is both scared, and certain that he's doing the right thing. The fear flares up enough to nearly obliterate that certainty as he turns up the corridor that ends at the Lord's private gym, but he keeps walking until the guards at the door move to bar his way.

"I am delivering the demon," he says, mind shrieking terror and uncertainty.

"We have orders to keep everyone out," one guard says belligerently.

"And I have orders to deliver her," Joshua lies.

"The Lord gave no order to bring her that we heard."

"Maybe so, but I have my orders."

"And we have ours, and they say no one enters."

She tunes them out, listening for his fractured mind. Through the door, she can barely make out the agonized sound of a thousand mind-blades spinning. Maybe he didn't give Joshua the order to bring her to him, but she needs to be here all the same. A quick distraction spell covers the guards and her uncle, and she takes one step-

-the physical world fades out, replaced by the writhing energy of the Twisting Nether. A second step takes her past the door and into the gym. A third step-

-the world fades back in and her hooves make no sound on the rubber floor as she retrieves her blades from their cabinet.

The Warglaives of Azzinoth trail lines of glowing green as they spin around him. The blades of his mind scream anger and pain, and she knows that gentle reassurance will not soothe them this time. She should be worried, she thinks absently, but somehow she has become the vessel of his will, and nothing matters but the pattern being woven, the ritual of motion. She takes up a position closer to him without being close enough that he might accidentally hit her, waits for him to start the routine over again, and follows his lead.


	29. Dancing in the dark

_Why can't they just obey me?_

He slices the air, imagining State's smug grin, Health's condescending sneer. He wants so very much to be able to kill them for their insolence, but experience has taught him that he can either have obedient ministers, or he can have competent ones. Waiting for his government to calm back down after he slaughters his cabinet is far more irritating than dealing with his current cabinet once a month, so he endures...

...but oh, he wants to kill them _so very badly_.

The blades whistle as he slays imaginary ministers, the only non-destructive expression of his rage. He knows that while he is in this state, it is not safe for anyone to try to calm him down. The rage must be channeled, expressed, spent - and until then, all he wants to do is destroy anyone who crosses his path and does not immediately leap to obey his unspoken desires.

Rage blinds him; too many years of being pushed past the limit of his self-control turn him into an animal, lashing out with any weapon available. Even the amount of control required to see the physical world is beyond him. His sight dissolves into swirls of muted color, hazy blobs of blood-red standing in for people against the smoky-dark background of stone walls and floors. He can see someone approach his guards, and the animal rage wants to be interrupted, wants to rend and kill...but his guards know their orders. The incident is dismissed, and once again he loses himself in bloody fantasy.

The tide has just begun to ebb when he detects someone in the room with him. Whoever it is, _whatever_ it is, has just become a target for his frustrated anger. He strikes; the figure blocks. He attacks again, and again the figure blocks. A part of him curses the lack of control he has over his vision right now; all he can see of this intruder is a dark shell that masks any identifying energy and blends maddeningly into the smoky-dark background. The rest of him doesn't care, and happily launches attack after attack. All are blocked. Not easily; that would enrage him further. No, the intruder is sloppy, and the strikes are blocked barely, awkwardly, at the last second, or by dodging out of the way. He keeps the dark figure so busy with defending against his attacks that there can be no retaliation, and amuses himself by slowly chasing it around the room.

This is exactly what he needed, he realizes as the anger is sated by proving his superiority again and again against this mysterious opponent. He's not sure how long it's been, but he feels - not calmer, but he's wresting enough scraps of control back from the mindless rage that he can enjoy this one-sided battle. It's almost a pity he's going to have to destroy his opponent to protect his secret. It won't be much longer - he can see that dark shell cracking and knows that the intruder's energy is flagging. The speed of his attacks increases, delicious anticipation of the moment when this lovely little duel ends. The shell encasing his opponent cracks more, bits fading back into deep purple that expands and diffuses into a lighter shade that reminds him of the dreadlords that served him when he was master of the Black Temple. He snarls. How _dare_ one of them invade his world? The demon will pay for this clumsy assassination attempt-

Fear floods him as he realizes that the demon never actually attacked him. The last remnants of mindless anger are shoved ruthlessly aside, and he forces his mind to see more than just magic. The world snaps back into focus, and the dark shell of his demonic opponent overlays the white-clad body of his Champion. When he fails to maintain the pattern of attacks, she tilts her head at him in unspoken inquiry.

"I thought I told you to tell me when you needed a break," he snarls, fear igniting into anger at himself. He stalks back across the room, limbs trembling with reaction, and snatches up the stripped copper wire that he hasn't gotten around to replacing with anything more elegant.

He turns to beckon her over, but she's already following him, looking properly chastised. She juggles both blades for a moment, then sets them on the floor and takes the wire without needing to be told. The tired way her wings droop make him feel slightly less guilty about misdirecting his anger onto her. When she shyly hands the wire back, he is still seething too badly to not snap at her. He takes a long drink of stale-lemon electricity to give himself more time to wrestle his temper back under control.

"Why are you here?" Immediately he regrets the words; too harsh, too angry. Too much like he's trying to chase her off.

"Uncle Josh brought me." She's calm, unruffled by his anger, as always. He doesn't know whether she understands his intentions or just forgives his outbursts, but either one is better than he deserves.

"Why."

She bites her lip, momentarily looking younger, more vulnerable. He wants to steal her away, keep her all to himself, protect her from every potential threat in the world - but he's already stolen her away, is keeping her mostly to himself, and in this world, _he_ is the biggest threat.

"He didn't say, but he knew you were very angry, and he was scared."

A glance at the door shows five hazy red blobs on the other side. Joshua had to have lied to Tessa's guards to get her out, and successfully lied to his guards to get them to let her in. Very well, he will corroborate the lie that he gave orders to have his demon brought to him. Perhaps if he'd been thinking clearly, he would have actually thought to give such an order. Certainly, he will arrange for Tessa to be brought to him after the cabinet meeting descends into disaster next month. Just thinking about that eventuality makes his blood boil again, but a hand on his wrist distracts him. He glances at her, but her head is bent over his hand, drinking from the wire he's clutching as though he could squeeze the life out of his ministers by proxy.

"Joshua was right," he says shortly, trying not to sound as angry as he is.

She looks up from her drink, hand still on his wrist. "Did I do okay this time? I know I couldn't block them all…"

His mind shudders away from things he didn't do.

"Kal'shan? What's wrong?"

"You should not have come." He knows he's lashing out unfairly, but the flood of self-loathing can only be resisted so much. "I could have killed you."

He expects her to - well, okay, he doesn't _actually_ expect her to recoil in horror. Anyone else, yes, but not _her_. He expects _her_ to throw herself at him with concerned devotion he doesn't deserve. What he does not expect is for her to tilt her head to one side and ask, as though mildly curious, why he was in the Twisting Nether after the Black Temple got assaulted by his enemies.

The memories should hurt, considering he'd buried them so deeply that he'd forgotten them entirely. They should rip through him like the blades did, leave pain bleeding in their wake. That they do not means that she is doing...something. He should be enraged that she is...he doesn't know what. He should be paranoid about this power she has over him, suspicious of her motives. Somehow, none of that is as important as the fact that the memories don't hurt.

"I was killed," he says slowly, as though the words were being uttered by someone else. He should be devastated by this fact; should need to slay imaginary foes until he can force this emotional blow back behind the walls that hold back madness. Impressive, his little tiger-by-the-tail. It seems that she has velvet paws to match her sharp claws.

"You're half-Nathrezim," she says gently. "Like me. If our bodies are killed, they return to the seeds from which they grew."

"That would certainly explain how I found myself there." Because he is focusing on the newly-unearthed memories, he can almost see the details of the actual battle fall off and sink back into obscurity, leaving only the knowledge that not even death could defeat him.

Carefully, carefully she takes the fear of accidentally killing her and ties it to the knowledge of his self-resurrection, watches as it is neatly dismembered and devoured.

"Kal'shan?"

He starts slightly, attention returning from where it had been lost in memory. "Hn?"

"Why were you so angry?"

The broken machinery of his mind jerks into motion beneath the veils and numbing foam she has spread liberally around to calm him down from his killing rage. A broad and predatory smile is all the answer she gets.


	30. Warlord vs ministers, round two

The five men in the hallway stare awkwardly at each other, an uncomfortable silence stretching between them. They'd given up arguing when the Warlord's demon vanished into thin air, and now wait to see whether any of them will survive their Lord's wrath over this mishap. The door slams open, making Joshua and the guards jump, but the Warlord does not stop to rage at his servants. He strides through with all the deadly grace of a tiger in the jungle, demon in tow, and the guards hesitate only a second before falling into step behind him as though nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Joshua scrambles to catch up.

"Joshua!"

"Yes, my Lord!"

The bigger man glances back at Joshua, who swallows at the unnerving way his Lord is smiling. "Excellent work, remembering to bring my demon to me. Now return her to her chambers and then report to the meeting room. You-" he turns to one of his guards. "Ensure that my ministers report to the meeting room, as well. Use whatever force you need to, but remember that their lives are mine to take as I please."

The guard is too well-trained to show any reaction to the order. "Yes, my Lord."

Joshua glances at Tessa, ready to 'command' her, but she's fallen into step behind him already. They say nothing while their lord and his guards are in earshot, but once the echoes of other boots have faded away, he turns to his niece with a curious look.

"What did you _do_?" he asks in an awed whisper.

She smiles beatifically at him. "My job."

There's nothing he can think of to say to that, so he says nothing. When the door to her suite closes behind him, she retrieves the package of cloth and thread she'd requested and curls up on the couch for a quiet night of embroidery.

* * *

Joshua is the first one back to the meeting room. Well, first aside from the Warlord. The table has been righted, all the scattered paperwork sorted and stacked neatly, and he dares not ask who did it. He just takes his seat to the right of his Lord quietly and tries not to be unnerved by the feeling that he is sitting next to a large predator who has eaten his fill, but will still play with his food.

"Your fears are groundless," the Warlord says quietly, not looking at Joshua as though denying that the words came from his mouth. "Even at my...least stable...I would never harm her."

"You were listening." Joshua swallows hard. Tessa may be safe, but he has no such illusions for himself.

The look he gives Joshua isn't so much angry as it is amused by an insignificant opponent. "She's _my_ demon. I'm _always _listening." He pauses to let that sink in. "And as long as you have the wisdom to never utter the name you heard from her lips, you need not fear that I will destroy as useful a servant as you have proven yourself to be."

The arrival of the Minister of War prevents any response. She nods briskly to Joshua and gives her Lord a half-bow before calmly taking her seat. Finance is not so reserved; strictly non-accusatory complaints follow him as he takes his place at the table. The other ministers trickle in one by one, looking as though they were interrupted in various stages of relaxation, until the only one missing is State. There is a nervous silence in the room, everyone wondering how long they were going to have to wait but unwilling to voice the question while the Warlord sits like a cat surrounded by wounded canaries.

After several minutes, State hurries in and flashes a greasy sort of smile around the room. "Sorry, sorry," the pudgy man pants. "Took me a few to get presentable. You know how it is when you're _deep into _something."

"I hope that _something _was the task I last set you," the Warlord says with lazy menace. "In fact, why don't you appraise me of your progress on that front? We got..._distracted_...before we could address your department."

State pales; Joshua smothers a grin. The pudgy man didn't expect to be held accountable after the meeting's chaotic dissolution; no doubt this has been going on for some time. _Well, they're in for a shock, _Joshua thinks. _With Tessa to calm him down, they'll actually have to do their jobs now._

One by one, the rest of the ministers are called upon to give their reports and answer to their lord. The reactions range from guilt and fear to annoyance and, in one case, relief. The only one who appears as relaxed as Joshua is War, but even that has more in common with a soldier's neutral expression than true comfort in the face of this unexpected meeting.

As the second meeting wears on and Joshua can see his Lord's 'good mood' fading, Transportation and State exchange a look and start the same sort of bickering that led to the first enraged dismissal. War notices this, as does Industry, and the two women eye their Lord warily. The last bit of amusement flickers out, replaced with irritation.

"Donald." The name cracks like a whip, and State jumps at being addressed. "Minister of State Donald," the Warlord continues in something between a hiss and a purr, "did you so enjoy having my hand around your throat that you are eager for a repetition?"

State swallows, one hand going to his throat reflexively before he forces it back down. "No, my Lord."

Transportation wisely shuts up. The rest of the meeting is carried out in a more or less orderly fashion, and the ministers have a slightly dazed look about them as they file out at the end.


	31. Warm milk and a teddy bear won't cut it

Sleep hasn't come easily to him in several thousand years.

The steamy insect-ridden jungles where he first assumed the identity of Warlord Raphael weren't so bad, but the strange underground cities tunneled into the mountains of this region remind him uncomfortably of another mountain he spent far too long beneath. Despite his soft bed and silky sheets, the darkness weighs down on him and he can feel stone beneath his hands, bars defining the boundaries of his prison. Strange as it is, he almost longs for the ruined temple he once called his own. There, at least, the stone lifted him into the air, cradled him against the wild alien sky.

His lips twist into a bitter smile. Ah, Draenor. A harsh, broken world for a harsh, broken man. The desolation was almost soothing. The way the wind screamed around the crumbling edges of the world, the planet itself howling its agony to the uncaring Void, reflected his own unceasing anguish. The acrid fumes that sustained him bled into the air from the wounds the land had suffered, like some abandoned mother holding him to her bleeding breast. Betrayed by her own children, she offered him the only nourishment she had left, her very lifeblood taking the place of the milk that once flowed freely.

He wonders what became of the ruined world he'd claimed as his, after his murderers had taken their revenge. No doubt the temple had been reclaimed by the coward who held the dubious honor of being the last in a long line of people who'd betrayed him. He wonders what became of his Warden-turned-prisoner. Did she march back to his brother in triumph, proudly declaring that his twin, the Betrayer, was dead? Did she march out into the harsh landscape that matched his broken mind and end her own life? He hopes so, but doubts it. He would not be so lucky.

_Brother…_

This will not do. If he keeps thinking like this, picking at the wounds of his past, he will only work himself into a rage again. It seems a shame to waste Tessa's precious gift by deliberately clawing at himself. Not that he even deserves as much as she's done so far-

Again, he cuts the thought short, fighting back irritation at himself.

His office is dark and quiet. The viewing screen on his desk casts a pale light on his face as he rewinds to Joshua's last visit.

"_What if he loses his temper one day and does something without meaning to?"_

The recording pauses at his command as his heart constricts again. The words are just as potent as the first time he'd heard them. No…he can't, he _won't_ let that happen. She is his key to freedom, she must _never_ come to harm. He had been so very sure, earlier, that he could make good on that promise – but now that her calming influence has eroded, his history of failure and broken vows comes back to gnaw on him. Abruptly, he switches the screen to live feed. He needs to see her, to know that she is alive and well.

Her bed is empty. He switches to the living room and there she is, curled up in her favorite corner of the couch, cable in her mouth as she concentrates on – what? Whatever it is, she's positioned it so that the prying eye of the recording device cannot see it. Something resembling a soft smile crosses his face. She's far too clever for that to have been an accident; she's making something, and she does not want him to see what it is. Very well, he will allow her this bit of secrecy. Even if she hadn't earned it a dozen times over already, she certainly would have after today.

The memory of his cabinet's discomfiture pleases him. Too long, they had used his temper against him and he, unwilling to search for their replacements, was unable to stop them but now – now, with the help of his Champion, he was able to best them. After all, death itself hadn't been able to defeat him, why should he let a motley collection of scum and schemers get their way? One thing nags at him, though. How did she get into the gym unnoticed? He did not see her approach, nor did he hear the door open. He would have detected the magic of a portal opening, so how…?

With a bit of effort, he restrains the impulse to storm down there and demand answers, to threaten and interrogate her. He does not need such tactics with her; she will answer if he merely asks. _And,_ a corner of his mind whispers, _I don't want to yell at her._

He rewinds the recording. _"Tessa...I have to ask, because I'm your uncle and I care about you. Is he treating you right?" _The memory of Joshua saying that Tessa doesn't deserve to be treated like an enemy stabs him with a dagger forged of guilt. She doesn't deserve that. He's _not_ treating her right. The rooms she is confined to are a more comfortable prison than his was, but they are a prison none the less. She deserves better – but he can't. He no longer fears that she will knowingly do anything to hurt him, but he doesn't have the same confidence for her devotion, and he doesn't want to share. Once, a girl who smiled at him later turned around and abandoned him for another. He could not bear if that happened again._  
_

The screen goes dark at his command; the door shuts behind him with a click. He does not care that he will be imposing on her. Right now, he needs to bathe in her smile and pretend that she will remain by his side forever._  
_


	32. He really should file those things down

He pauses at the door, staring through the physical world to the swirling energies that lie behind it. The lilac glow is her, lines stretching from her mass to the matrix of whatever spell she is working. He knocks on the door twice and she bolts for the bedroom, hiding whatever project she has been working on. Only when she returns to the couch does he open the door. Her smile is a miracle he does not deserve, easing some of the tension inside him. It is a smile that says _you are the center of my world _and _nothing matters to me but you_, and his pleasure is marred only by the fact that she is in her borrowed form. He frowns as the door closes behind him, and once it is shut she discards her disguise. Her smile this time says _everything I do is for you,_ and he has to resist the desire to hold her tightly lest anyone try to steal this treasure from him.

"Illidan!"

The name is breathed reverently, as though his presence were as great a miracle to her as her smile is to him. He drops his human seeming and waits, but she does not ask why he is here. After a moment, he takes a seat. He hadn't thought about what to do once he got here.

"Is something wrong, Kal'shan?"

"No. I just...wanted to discuss today's events with you."

She tilts her head to one side, curious.

"You performed very well this morning. The uniform pleased me." He basks in her radiant smile. "I hope you understand why I did not say anything to you at the time." Pride bleeds out along with the words, pierced by guilt and self-loathing and other emotions he refuses to give name to.

"Of course," she says calmly. "If you had, it would have ruined the act."

She understands. _Too good to be true,_ his fear whispers, and he forces it back into its cage. He ruined too many things already; he refuses to let this fail through some fault of his own.

"Did you know that Joshua had no orders to bring you to me?" It's not the question he thought he was going to ask, but now that he has, he's curious about the answer.

"Yes." Before he can do more than open his mouth, she continues. "If I had not gone with him, the guards would have killed him. I figured...whatever was going on, it had to be serious for him to risk his life like that, and if it was that serious..." Her soul draws in, condenses from lilac to deep purple, the precursor to that black shell it had been. "I am your Champion. My place is at your side."

Skeletal hope stirs within the pool of despair and fear. As with her loyalty, nourished by her eager devotion, he admits the slim possibility that he may someday be able to trust her to not leave him.

"There is something else I wish to discuss with you," he says warily, and something in his tone makes her apprehensive. "I did not see or hear you enter the gym. Why?"

She relaxes, and he wonders with brief amusement if she thought he was going to ask about whatever she did to soothe his inflamed mind.

"I stepped through the Twisting Nether." At his raised eyebrows, she tilts her head again. "You don't know...?"

"I..."

"You had no one to teach you," she says softly.

"I had no one to teach me," he agrees, humiliation and bitterness squirming behind his eyes even if her compassion is keeping the rest of his reaction at bay. To have his ignorance exposed like this would normally fill him with rage and irritation, but...not from her.

She stands up, crosses the short distance between couch and chair, and kneels at his feet. One hand is halfway to her hair before he stops himself, but she takes it gently in both of hers and presses the palm of it, talons and all, against her cheek. Her eyelids flutter closed in joyful contentment.

"I'll teach you, Kal'shan," she says reverently, as though this were just another way for her to serve him rather than an area where she was his superior.

He says nothing for a long minute, painfully aware of the razor-sharp claws resting delicately against her skin, almost afraid to breathe lest the slightest motion cause them to slice into her face. The moment stretches, this fear waking other fears, and now he says nothing because he is wrestling with his history of broken promises, struggling to keep the avalanche of his past from crushing his fragile future. He closes his own eyes, all his focus turned inward, and thus does not see hers open, nor the look of concern on her face, or notice that his hand no longer touches her skin. When her hands slide soothingly up his horns, however, he is very aware of it. He surrenders himself to the relaxing sensation, knowing himself to be a broken wreck, hating himself for not being stronger. Is he really such a pathetic failure that he cannot go a day without her comforting touch? Has she spoiled him so badly that he cannot endure the workings of his own mind unaided? The anger rises like a tide, cuts like a knife - and is deflected.

Yes, he could endure. He could do without. But then he would never be free. She has never mocked his moments of vulnerability before; in this, too, he is beginning to trust her. Weakness and need warp suddenly into unspoken order and obedience. Is this really so different from the services rendered by his guards , his chef, his ministers? Has she not sworn herself to him? His servant, his Champion, his to command. His to use. His forever, and ten thousand years of wrath will strike down anyone who tries to take her from him.

Once he has shepherded his fear back into its cage, she weaves reassurance around the bars, her chains of _I'll never leave you_ and _Everything I do is for you_ intertwining with his spikes of self-loathing. For the second time that day she rights toppled towers of fractured functionality and mends the wounded machinery. Part of her weeps to see how easily he can undo her work, how simple it is for a single fear to rampage through the broken mindscape. She sees him struggle against relaxation, clinging to the sharp clarity of his pain, but then he surrenders. She realizes, consciously, that he _wants_ this calm, this fragment of peace, but even simple pleasures have been denied him for so long that his impulse is to deny them to himself.

She does not fill his mind with soft gel or anesthetic foam. Instead, she shores up the broken pieces trying to mend themselves. If his pain ceases completely, he will grow suspicious and she might lose these opportunities entirely. No, she leaves the superficial wounds alone and delves into the tangle of damaged structure, seeking out the twisted edges separated from each other and making what small repairs she can. It is a slippery slope of self-destruction that he is on, and it will not be easy dragging him back up, but there is no purpose she would more willingly devote herself to. She belonged to him the instant she touched his mind, lived only to serve him and obey his command. Surrendering to him was just a formality.

His mind shudders and stretches like a great beast waking up from a nap, satisfied with the devotion she has laid out as an offering. She slips out of his mind, releases his horns, and resumes kneeling at his feet. At her touch, his hand clenches briefly and then opens reluctantly.

"I will arrange for you to be brought to me when I practice." The words are casual, his tone distant. "You performed well enough under the circumstances, but it is clear that you are not yet comfortable with the blades. Your form is sloppy and such things will get you killed on the battlefield."

"Yes, my Kal'shan."

"Joshua will be given free access to you. If there is anywhere you wish to go, tell him and he will tell me so that I can arrange it."

"Yes, my Kal'shan."

"Tessa..."

Whatever he was going to say dries up in his throat as she looks up at him with a profound joy that he hasn't seen since he had his own eyes. The memory is so old that it takes a minute to place it: green shade and golden light, the creak of wood and a tolerant smile, a face so like his own shining with the echo of a single word. Bitterness threatens to pour forth from where that memory had been buried, but her gaze drags him back to the present. He takes her hand gently, mindful of his claws.

"Get some sleep," he tells his Champion gently, pulling her to her feet as he stands up.

She enfolds his hand in both of hers, brings it up to her cheek and brushes his knuckles across her skin. "Yes, my Kal'shan."

When the darkness of his bedroom again surrounds him, the mattress does not feel like stone and the sheets whisper against his skin like leaves stirred by a gentle breeze.


	33. Can't free a fish from water, either

Joshua shifts slightly under the weight of his Lord's gaze. He wasn't arrested for his actions last night, so he's fairly confident that he won't be killed, but when it comes to his master, he tries not to make any assumptions.

"You lied to her guards," the Warlord says finally, mild disbelief and menace lacing the words. "You took her without permission, and then you lied to _my_ guards."

There's no point in denying it. "Yes, my Lord."

"Why?" He actually sounds curious rather than threatening.

"I thought..." Joshua takes a deep breath. "For some reason, you didn't want to kill them, and they were taking advantage of that. So I thought..." He trails off awkwardly. "You said that sometimes, you need to hear it. And Tessa said you wouldn't harm her, and - forgive me, but - you look _happier_ after you've spent time with her."

"Indeed. How did you get her guards to open the door without the amulet?"

"I told them that with her fully bonded to you, your word alone commanded her."

"And you had no guards with you. I would have preferred to not have her unprotected, but the precedent has been set." He turns to the screen showing a mountainside view, completely ignoring Joshua for a long minute. "So long as she is with you, she will have no guards. I will not have her wandering around unescorted for the time being, however."

"Lord?"

"She will be joining me in my private gym sessions; my secretary will deliver the schedule to you. I am also giving you the order you told my guards you had: you are to bring her to me after every cabinet meeting. All other times, you will have free access to her. If she wants to go somewhere, you are to inform me so that it can be arranged."

For a moment, Joshua is overwhelmed with shocked joy that Tessa is being given more freedom. Then he notices how his Lord's hands are clasped behind his back, one hand clutching the other wrist so tightly that his fingertips have turned white while the other hand is a fist so tight that it trembles_. But he's the Warlord, _Joshua thinks in confusion. _What does he have to be nervous about?_

The only conclusion he can reach is that his master is still concerned about treating Tessa right. This has all kinds of remarkable implications, none of which he really feels up to thinking about.

"One more thing." The Warlord turns back to face Joshua, that bully-protecting-girlfriend look on his face again. "Once a week, I will be...bonding...with her. Under no circumstances, up to and including armed invasion, am I to be disturbed during that time."

"I understand, my Lord," Joshua says with a bow.

"Good."

* * *

Joshua goes straight to her suite, as he suspected. The Warlord leans forward, fingers laced together, and watches to see if his little bird will fly at the first hint of freedom from her gilded cage.

* * *

"Tessa?"

"Just a minute," she says absently, tongue in the corner of her mouth. Her hands dance over invisible strings, conducting the arcane performance of needle and thread. After a minute or two she gestures a crescendo and the cloth wraps itself up neatly in the undyed wool it was delivered to her in. "There," she says, cradling the bundle fondly. "I guess Illi- um, I guess you just got the news?"

"I did." Joshua sits in the overstuffed chair that had been the stage for her little sewing project. "And I know he's listening, and it's not my business anyway, so I'll just say that I approve of this step and leave the incomprehensible demon things to you." He grins with her, despite feeling like he's losing touch - and, paradoxically, feeling all the more like her surrogate father because of it. "Now, our Lord mentioned a weekly bonding session, but I didn't stop at my office to see if the schedule had been delivered yet. What day is that going to be on?"

"Week's Dawn," she says after a few seconds.

Joshua nods. "Would you like to come home with me for Week's Dusk dinner? Your grandparents would love a chance to see you again."

"Maybe next week," she says, looking like she'd rather be saying 'yes'. "There's some things I'm working on."

"But you've been cooped up in here for almost a month. Don't you want to get out for a bit?"

She smiles in a way that reminds Joshua of his Lord. "If I really wanted to get out of here, Uncle Josh, nothing would be able to stop me."

He stares at her for a minute before shaking his head. "Incomprehensible demon stuff. Got it."

* * *

The Warlord stares at her as well, remembering two days that she spent without moving from a single spot simply because he said not to move. She could have left any time she wanted – between walking through the gym door and the memory of his own self-resurrection, he supposes it would be simple enough. She didn't know about his ignorance until yesterday, however.

On screen, Tessa and Joshua are talking, but he doesn't pay attention. One human finger caresses her image with gentle possessiveness. She could have left. He was not imprisoning her. Every day that she remained in her rooms was a declaration of loyalty. A knot of guilt loosens, allowing the hope it had been choking to breathe freely_. I am your Champion,_ she'd said_._ _My place is at your side._

_Indeed,_ he thinks as he switches off the viewing screen. He refuses to think about how she might have meant that, given the startling obedience she has already shown. _She's just a child._ If that hadn't been abundantly clear already, State's interest in her would have confirmed it. _The fat slimeball wouldn't dare act on his desires, at least. Cunning little sleezebucket knows how far he can toe the line before he risks becoming a greasy stain._ He continues in this vein for some time, deliberately banishing the softer emotions, burying them beneath his usual prickly shell of barely-restrained annoyance and borderline menace.

After all, he has a reputation to maintain.


	34. Who wants to see what she's been making?

Joshua had been a little surprised when Tessa asked him to bring her a clock and a calendar as well as a copy of the schedule that had been delivered to him, but only a little. Whatever it is that she's doing to calm their Lord down, she seems to be taking it rather seriously. Demon or no, she's a little young to be choosing a career for herself, if her blithe comment of 'my job' is to be taken as a proclamation of a self-appointed position. Then again, maybe the Warlord has made 'tame demon' a job title. Whatever the case, Joshua's not about to ask. He used to take Tessa to work with him a few times a week to try to instill a sense of adult responsibility in her, since she couldn't exactly go to public school and was (to the best of his knowledge) too young to be legally employed, even if an employer was willing to overlook the whole 'demon' thing.

He's starting to re-think what 'too young' means in relation to her.

"Going out, boss?" His secretary pauses, hands hovering over the keys of her typing machine.

"Only briefly, Marcia. The Lord wants his demon, and she apparently scares the guards, so I have to go get her."

Marcia scoffs and resumes typing.

* * *

It's slightly surreal, he thinks as he watches her dance through the routine for the fifth time. He's halfway through conquering a world that's who-knows-how-far away from the one that he was born on, in the company of a girl half orc and half dreadlord, and he's giving her the same lessons he gave every demon hunter initiate he's ever had. Of course, she's already partly demonic, so some of the lessons come as naturally to her as breathing. The combat is harder for her, but she's so determined to master it that he has to tell her to stop before she tires herself out.

Between sessions, they sip on electricity and he teaches her the magical side to being a demon hunter. Her quick and dirty assessment – above average in fine manipulation, below average in raw power – is accurate, and she's picking up the techniques much faster than any other student he's had. There's not much chance to test her on those, given their underground environment and a lack of demons to hunt, but he's considering teaching her the things he'd learned before he lost his eyes.

Very surreal, to have come so far – in more ways than one – only to find himself revisiting his beginnings.

_But this time, I am being given the obedient devotion that should have been my due._

She finishes the sequence and looks to him, eager for his judgment. A frown would mean she messed up somewhere, and she would practically beg him to tell her what she did wrong. The tiniest nod, and that glorious, addictive smile of hers would wash over him, joy not for having done it right, but for having pleased him. She executed all the moves correctly; that's not why he had her run through them the fifth time. She needs more practice to make the motions come naturally, and to that end, he neither frowns nor nods. Instead, his blade flashes out and hers rises to meet it in the same motion that began the routine. As metal rings against metal, her face lights up in understanding, and _now_ he nods.

"That's enough for today," he says shortly. To anyone else, he would sound angry, but she knows better. "You're improving, but you still need more practice with the motions."

"Yes, Kal'shan," she sighs as she puts her warglaives away. The wistful look on her face as she closes the cabinet is nothing new. "Have I improved enough to practice without you?" she asks hopefully.

The memory of her falling over in utter exhaustion flashes before him, fear and guilt bleeding in its wake. "Not yet. Not until you can go a whole session without needing a break."

Her face falls briefly, but then fills with determination. "I understand. I won't fail you."

The declaration stuns him momentarily. It's something that many have said to him, but coming from her…he actually believes it. "I know you won't," he says, and her face lights up again.

He dons his illusionary disguise and she follows suit, the reality of where they are once more descending upon them. When they are alone, he can forget the last few decades and entertain fleeting fantasies that he is someone else, building a new life without the crushing failure of his past to rot the foundations before they're even built.

She follows him out the door, meek and demure as befits her fictitious role with the eyes of his guards on her. He's not sure why she unnerves them, but every one of them is uncomfortable with the duty of escorting her anywhere. Unexpected, but useful – it will strengthen public perception of her being leashed by his will alone.

"I'll be back tomorrow," he says casually as her guards open the door to her suite. "Interruptions of any kind while I am bonding with my demon will be fatal to the one doing the interrupting." He leaves it vague as to who the fatality will come from.

The guards look at each other nervously. "Understood, my Lord," one of them says, but he's already striding away, their compliance taken for granted.

* * *

Tomorrow. He'll be back tomorrow, and for a good chunk of time according to the schedule he gave Joshua. It surprises her how nervous she is. It's just oiling his horns. _And sneaking into his mind and repairing some things that are broken,_ a little voice in her head whispers_._ It's not like she's oiling his _wings_ or anything.

She stops for a minute, heart pounding with the intensity of _that_ thought. It would be wrong, wrong, wrong – she's pushing the limits of what would be appropriate as it is, he'd _never_ let her-

-but he doesn't know. He wasn't raised on Nathrezene, he doesn't know the most basic things about his other half. And she doesn't know how things work among the Kal'dorei. And his wings are so _ragged_…she knows he doesn't know how to care for them, and she's not trying to-

_Deep breath, Tessa. Get a grip on yourself. You've got enough going on tomorrow as it is._ Without the proper healing salve, she could argue herself into and out of it all night long, and still not be able to do anything. If she can get the proper ingredients, or something that works similarly, then maybe she'll argue herself blue. In the meantime…

Making sure the hidden recording device can't see, she unwraps the plain wool and admires the finished product. Maybe it's not proper at this stage, but she's not doing it to try to gain his favor. There are no other Nathrezim here to compete against, and she has no expectations that he'd ever judge her worthy even if he found out what he'd tacitly agreed to. No, she's not doing it in attempts to orbit closer to her star. She just wants to _do_ things for him. The burning desire to serve him hasn't lessened any, and she suspects it never will.

The wool cloth is wrapped up again, the package set carefully by the oil and polishing cloth. A bath, some quick tidying, and she slips into bed early.


	35. It's a bunch of lines

Author's note: the lyrics used are copyright to Cyndi Lauper and should not be interpreted as being the actual lyrics sung in this scene. The lyrics should instead be taken as a readily identifiable example of the musical genre.

* * *

The guards are visibly panicking as he strides up, irritation radiating from him with every stiff motion. Despite the simmering wrath implicit in his posture, the guards look relieved to see him.

"This better be good," he growls. "You interrupted a meeting with my Minister of Finance." _Which I would thank you for, if it wouldn't ruin my image,_ he continues silently.

"It's your demon, my Lord," one of the guards says shakily, eyes flicking back to the security screen with obvious distress. "She's making...gestures...and repeating the same sounds over and over again. We think she's trying to do some kind of magic. See for yourself..." The guard turns the screen and hits a button, slightly-staticy sound pouring from tiny speakers.

The Warlord frowns in concentration, watching his demon make very ritualistic-looking gestures, trying to think of why they look so familiar. He identifies them as being attack and defense motions used with the warglaive, and almost at the same time realizes that the 'sounds' she's making are words in Nathrezim - and she's singing.

_"Some boys take a beautiful girl, and hide her away from the rest of the world. I wanna be the one to walk in the sun. Oh, girls, they wanna have fu-un. Oh, girls, just wanna have-_

_That's all they really waaaaaaaaaant... Some fuuuuuuuuuuun... When the working day is done, oh, girls, they wanna have fu-un. Oh, girls, just wanna have fun..."_

The incongruity of the lyrics and the fear they inspire strikes him as so ludicrous that he bursts into slightly-maniacal laughter, which does absolutely nothing to reassure her guards. "I'll take care of this," he says between chuckles, casually keying in the sequence that will turn off and lock the security screen until he unlocks it again.

The guards unlock her door and open it for him, not very relieved even when the door closes behind him.

* * *

She was not expecting him to arrive nearly half an hour early.

"Illidan!"

The green glow of his eyes vanishes twice as he blinks. To judge from his expression, he was not expecting the overjoyed exclamation any more than she was expecting him. After a moment, he gives her a cocky grin that makes her breath catch endearingly.

"You scared your guards," he says mildly.

She tilts her head to one side. "I'm...sorry?"

He waves the confused apology away. "I'd rather be here than listening to Finance whine at me."

"Well...while you're here..." She turns to the table and picks up the bundle of woolen cloth, wings rubbing nervously against each other, and shyly offers the folded cloth to him. "I've been working on it for the last few days...take a look?"

Gingerly, he takes the bundle and unfolds the plain cloth, revealing a length of charcoal silk embroidered with abstract lines in black, midnight blue, and a lighter gray that give the impression of storm clouds swirling against a dark sky.

"This is gorgeous fabric..." He fingers it carefully, admiring the cool slide against his skin.

It occurs to her that she is wringing her hands, and she sticks them behind her back to hide this evidence of her nervousness. "...do you like it?" She bites her lip, then stops as he glances at her.

The gentle smile looks very out of place on him. "I do."

Pure joy and relief radiate from her, and he is momentarily bewildered that he - _he - _has had such an effect on her. She comes up to stand beside him, hands on his arm and head resting against his shoulder briefly.

"I know you prefer covering your eyes, but I thought...if you're going to hide them, you should have something that looks as nice as they do."

He glances at her again, overwhelmed at having been given a gift at all, much less something this...heart-felt. The arm she had been touching goes around her, and he revels in how easily she nestles against him, undismayed by the fel scars that mar his skin or the evil talons on his fingers. From the heat of her cheek against his chest, she must be blushing furiously.

"That's very thoughtful of you, my Champion." He refuses to even think about which emotions may be making his voice thick. She deserves some kind of reward for this, because he absolutely does _not _want to discourage this kind of behavior, but he has nothing suitable to give her, except... "Would you like to do the honor of tying it on?"

She leans back slightly, gazing up at him in wonder and adoration that reaches straight down past ten thousand years of revilement and ignites a dream that had been buried so long that its resurrection nearly causes him to gasp in pain. He doesn't even waste time lamenting that no one else ever looked at him like that; each second of undeserved worship is too precious to squander by dividing his attention.

The moment passes, and she flings herself back against his chest, hugging him tightly. "I would be honored, my Kal'shan!"

If she keeps using that reverent tone, she's going to spoil him.

Blushing even harder, she reaches up with both hands to untie the worn cloth that has served him for years. Feeling her strain to reach, he lowers his head slightly, momentarily wishing that she were not so _young_, and that he were someone else. Finally the knot comes undone and she lowers the cloth - only to be mesmerized at the unholy horrors that sit where once, there were handsome golden eyes.

If he lives for another ten thousand years, he'll never understand why she _likes_ those wretched things.

With a visible shake, she looks away slightly and trades the worn cloth for the embroidered one.

"Should I close my eyes?" He smirks as his amused words lure her back into looking at his face, well aware that he's just short-circuited her again and not caring in the slightest. He has an adoring girl on his arm, he's going to selfishly milk this for all it's worth.

"...I like your eyes," she says absently, looking like she's forgotten the new blindfold entirely.

The smirk widens just a tiny bit. Oh, he knows how unfair he's being, but _she_ doesn't seem to mind in the least. "Even though they indicate how malnourished I was?"

That crisp obedience he has seen in the past returns. "That can be fixed; if you take in enough energy, they'll replenish themselves." Guilty, she breaks eye contact again and takes the ends of the silk in both hands, then holds it up as if to say _are you sure you don't want to go gloriously eye-naked?_

"You seem reluctant," he says slowly, resisting the urge to run one finger down her cheek for the sheer pleasure of seeing her lean into his touch. "Are my eyes really so attractive to you?"

_There isn't a 'yes' strong enough to express my answer,_ she thinks absently, heart in her mouth. Lacking words, she nods mutely and leaves a shining gem of _yes_ in his mind. The warped structures shudder and cringe, and she realizes that his eyes have caused so much unhappiness to him that he may never be comfortable with them uncovered.

"...but..." She chokes back the desire to cry at how hurt he's been. "...your comfort is more important." Chin and hands raise slightly, ready to enact his will.

_She's prepared to go against her own desires because they conflict with mine. I don't deserve this kind of loyalty._ Guilt and unworthiness puncture his enjoyment of the situation. "I would also hate for your effort to have gone to waste."

He closes his eyes so that he doesn't see the disappointment in hers, feeling guilty for the relief that surges through him at the feel of cool silk against his eyelids. She ties the cloth securely behind his head, fingertips tracing the embroidery as her hands come back around his head, cupping his cheeks briefly before trailing lines of faint heat down his throat and finally, her hands come to rest splayed against his chest. Part of him protests that she is _young, too young_. Part of him wonders when the last time was that _anyone_ had touched him that gently - if at all. Most of him is filled with wordless gratitude for the kindness she has shown him.

His arms go around her, holding her close as she melts against him with a small sound of joy. He lowers his head until he can smell the foreign floral scent of her hair. "Thank you," he says quietly, unable to think of anything more eloquent to express how he feels - or at least, the parts he is willing or able to put names to.

"It was my pleasure, Illidan," she whispers.

The truth of that statement sings between him, and he has the sudden wild thought that she would do _anything _if it would please him. He's caught glimpses of this in their practice sessions, but now it occurs to him to wonder how far that goes. She forgives him snapping at her; she forgives him bothering her at odd hours of the night. Would she also forgive him...?

The battered, fragile shape of his honor twists inside him like a knife. _No_. Unacceptable. Even if...even if..._no_. She's a _child_, and he doesn't deserve it anyway. This simple pleasure, just holding her close, even this is more than he deserves - but he is greedy, and he cannot make himself give even this much up.


	36. It's all in how you look at it

The longer he holds her, the more she can see him struggle with himself. Tiny flecks of irritation scurry about, agitating previously-calm structures that he then wrestles back into place. This makes him even more irritated with himself, and the process begins again. She can see an angular shape rattling behind sturdy barricade walls, increasingly restless as the struggle for calm gets more difficult. . One insectoid limb composed of razor-sharp blades reaches over the top of the barricade, battering a corner that looks chewed on. Those blades she has seen before, whirling at high speed around his mind, and she suddenly realizes that she is looking at his rage.

She needs to distract him before it gets loose.

"Should I get the oil?"

The hesitant question effectively sidetracks him. "Yes," he says after a minute, releasing her reluctantly and taking a seat while she fetches oil and cloth.

The tension starts draining out of his posture as the soft cloth slides up his horns, helped by the anesthetic foam she lavishes on his penned-up rage. The flecks of irritation are not as easy to deal with. After the first attempts to gel them in place miss completely, she gives in to her own irritation and sprays foam until they all stop scurrying. He sighs and relaxes even further, thoughts drifting contentedly. Time to get to work. Some of the damage she's repairing looks familiar, and she starts marking the ends as she reconnects them. If the same structures break in the same way, she might be able to fashion some kind of elastic tether or collar with which to either prevent the damage, or help him repair it without her aid. When the newer damage has been undone, she pokes at the warped bits she marked. Some of them have started un-warping, reaching for the pieces they used to connect to, and some haven't – but they are all exactly where she left them tied. Good progress, and encouraging. She ignores everything behind walls or barricades, and eyes the piles of shards and scraps that are scattered about like dead leaves. Fitting together two halves of a broken whole is one thing; returning these to their proper places is going to be like solving several half-done puzzles whose pieces have all been mixed together.

Puzzles...

She switches out of the machine-oriented visualization that got her some of the best grades in her Reconstruction classes, seeing everything now in a more artistic visualization drawing from imagery native to his mind. Her disembodied presence solidifies into an avatar of herself. The barricades become buildings of a foreign design, locked and barred. Some of the unrepaired structures become buildings in severe disrepair, while others resemble sickly trees of an unidentified species, and a few loom as battered statues.

_Well, that makes it easier. Now, which to repair first?_

Buildings would be easy enough to fix; trees, not so much. One of the statues, though, looks familiar and she has just decided to start with that one when she hears little feet scuff the dead leaves and debris. Her avatar turns around to look, and she bites back a cry of dismay. It's a child, one very badly beaten and wounded. Festering sores, infected puncture wounds, and superficial scratches cover his light-purple skin. His blue hair is tangled and matted with dried blood, one arm hangs in a crude sling, and dirty bandages bind both feet. A folded cloth has been tied over one eye; the other one is lambent gold and stares at her in despair and faint hope.

For a long moment, all she can do is stare back. This child has just become her first priority, but where to begin?

"What hurts most?" she asks softly.

The child whimpers and scratches at an open wound with his good hand. This visualization is more intuitive than the other; she concentrates on the end rather than the means, and manifests a pot of healing salve and clean bandages. The child stands obediently still as she dabs salve into his cuts and sores and ties the clean bandages into place over each one. When that is done she reaches towards the pad over his eye, but he claps his good hand over it and runs off into one of the decrepit buildings. With a sigh, she banishes what's left of the salve and cloth and begins threading the choked path that leads out of his mind.

"Illidan?"

The gentle voice pulls him out of the pain-free haze he'd been blissfully lost in. Awareness of the world fades back in. "Hn?"

"What did you look like before..." her voice trails off awkwardly, but the rhythmic motion of her hands does not falter. "...before you got such nice horns?"

"Mostly the same," he says absently, grateful for the relaxing motion that keeps the memories free of any sting. "No horns, of course. No wings. I had feet instead of hooves, and my hands weren't...clawed."

"What about your skin, and your hair?"

"My skin...was the same, but not marred by these fel scars. My hair was..." It's been so long, he's almost forgotten. "…blue..."

"And your eyes?"

"They were gold." The pain is still gloriously absent, leaving a dry bitterness. "It was supposed to be an omen, a sign of great destiny. Now it is my brother whose eyes are gold, while mine-"

"-are much more attractive," she interrupts firmly. Her hands leave his horns.

Startled, he opens the eyes in question and stares at her. She stares defiantly back, despite the blush climbing her cheeks.

"I'm a demon," she says matter-of-factly, with a toss of her head that falls just short of being insolent. "Things are different for me."

Somehow, hearing it like that allows the words to sidestep the festering tangle of shattered hopes and cruel experience. Or perhaps whatever it is that she does to him is responsible for allowing him to think past the fears that hound him. He doesn't particularly care which it is; he cares that right now, he has a chance to build _something_ with a girl for whom everything he is and does is _not_ a reason to shun him. He stands slowly, smiling faintly when she backs up a step, her breath catching and hero-worship shining from her face. Things are different here. No one outside of this room knows his past to judge him on it, and there are none of his people here to judge him on his current actions. He moves to the couch and sits as though it were a throne, wings draped over the back, and with one hand he beckons. In a flash, she is seated demurely next to him. He does not miss the way her hands are clasped, as though they were holding her hopes and fears in check, and she has been careful to keep just enough distance between them.

This will never do. She is _his_ Champion, he will not have her less than comfortable in his presence. Besides, he is greedy for the feel of her skin against his. Nothing inappropriate, because she _is_ a child – just the innocent physical contact that other people enjoy. One arm reaches out and pulls her closer. At first, she seems frozen in shock, but it doesn't take her long to nestle against him like a tiger cub snuggling up to its mother.

"Indeed." His tone is more purr than the growl he'd intended. "So tell me, my Champion, exactly how different things are."

He can almost feel the look of adoration, warm against the barren wasteland of his heart.

"As you wish, my Kal'shan."


	37. The path he fears to tread

She finishes the routine and turns to face him, breathing hard, face flushed from her exertion. He gives her a slight nod, and she beams at him. One tendril of hair sticks to her cheek, black strands reaching around from where she's restrained it in a high tail. Should he? She will do it herself if he hesitates. He reaches out to brush the strands away, to feel her skin beneath his and see her lean into his touch.

"Ow!"

She jerks back, startled. The two cuts on her cheek split open, blood slowly pooling in the rent flesh before droplets begin creeping hesitantly down her face like deer navigating a mountain trail. She winces as her fingers flutter over the wounds, eyes wide as she sees her own blood on them. The hurt confusion she turns on him is an arrow in his heart. One step, two - she backs up slowly, as though afraid to make any sudden moves, terror showing on her face now. He wants to apologize, to beg her forgiveness, to cry out in the anguish that surges through him at her rejection - but he can't move. His hand, the hand that wounded her, remains outstretched. A single drop of her blood beads at the end of one traitorous talon.

"Foul demon! What have you done to her?"

He'd thought he could not possibly feel any worse, but oh, he was _wrong_. To see his Champion cringe away from him was bad enough. To see her seek refuge in his brother's arms...

More than ever, he wants to plunge those talons into his own flesh, but still he is unable to move.

_This can't be happening. This can't be real. Tessa, I'm so sorry..._

The darkness tastes like Hyjal on his tongue as he gasps for breath, fingers twisted in the sheets. A nightmare. It was just a nightmare, but this is the third time in as many nights that he's had it.

_I can't lose her. I won't take that risk._

No one will ever see the inside of his bedroom but him, and _he_ certainly doesn't care if his walls are scored. Inarticulate screams of strangled rage that cover fear and guilt echo off the polished stone as he drags his claws down the smooth surface again and again. He pauses periodically to test the tips against his own skin, growling each time he draws blood.

_Better mine than hers._

When he is finally satisfied that the wicked talons have been dulled enough to not present a danger to his Champion, it is well past dawn and he wants nothing more than to crawl back into bed and claim the sleep that was stolen from him by nightmares. His mind feels abraded, as though he had been scraping _it_ against the stone wall for hours rather than his claws. What's on his schedule today, anyway?

The door to his office locks only from the inside, as his own rooms are accessed from it. He does not bother to don human form as he stalks to his desk; that's one irritation he can do without for the time being. Now, what's on the schedule? Meetings, meetings...nothing urgent. He scribbles one note for his secretary with directions to cancel or re-schedule everything, and another for Joshua, who was to be his first appointment, directing him to bring his demon here. The second note gets torn up. As much as he yearns to have her plunge him into utter relief from himself, he doesn't want her to see him like this with scratches all up and down his arms.

He is nearly back to bed when he remembers that his demon is more clever than most of his staff. When Joshua learns that their meeting has been canceled, he will likely use the time to visit his niece, who will realize that something must be wrong. She left her rooms without direct order once before, walked through a locked door because she somehow knew that he needed her. A third note is hastily scrawled, this one orders for Joshua to relay to Tessa that she is to remain in her rooms for the rest of the day, and dropped through the slot to land on his secretary's desk.

Before he returns to bed, he keys the viewing screen on and switches the feed to his Champion's rooms. She's sprawled in her own bed, one pillow clutched to her chest, wings spread out loosely. Seeing her sleeping peacefully brings him a tiny measure of peace as well, and he keys off the screen with a sigh before seeking refuge from the waking world.

* * *

"He canceled your meeting?" Although she has turned to look at Joshua in shock, the needle continues to dance over the red fabric, leaving black embroidery in its wake.

"He canceled all his meetings today, according to his secretary. No explanation." Joshua unfolds a sheet of paper and offers it to her. "And he left this for me."

She takes it, skimming the loose penmanship. Joshua knows what it says, but what he doesn't know is why his Lord would specifically order Tessa to stay in her rooms today. Her expression doesn't give him any clues; it closes up until she may as well be carved out of stone. After a minute, she looks up.

"I hear and obey the words of my Lord," she says with a sort of distant obedience.

The needle continues to dance over the cloth as she stands up and calmly walks to her desk. A pen scratches against the paper briefly, then she walks back and returns it to her uncle. A glance shows him why she didn't bother hiding what she wrote beneath the orders; it's in some alphabet he's never seen before.

"Give that back to his secretary for me?"

"Sure, Tessa. No problem." He folds it up and tucks it into his shirt pocket, slightly unnerved by the unnatural calm she's radiating. "Do you know why he might have done this? I mean - I know he tells you things that I don't have any business knowing, and I'm not asking to be told something that's none of my business, but when he was...bonding...with you on Week's Dawn, did he tell you anything that this might be related to?"

"No," she says serenely.

The forced calmness is too much for Joshua; he makes his apologies uneasily and leaves to deliver her mysterious message.

* * *

When he wakes up several hours later, feeling refreshed but nagged by guilt, his first thought is of his Champion. She will have gotten his orders by now. Did he correctly guess her intent? Is she upset with him? He runs his fingers through his hair, grimacing. A long, hot shower would be marvelous right now, but he wouldn't be able to enjoy it with this nagging at him.

There is a single folded paper in the basket beneath the inbound slot. Sparkly purple ink forms crisp Kal'dorei runes that read 'Did I do something wrong?' and the guilt doubles. She doesn't deserve this. He'll have to explain to her - but not right now.

The hot water pounds against his back, soothing, relaxing tense muscles as he scrubs the scabs off his arms and rinses suds out of his hair. He can almost imagine his sins - or some of them - washing down the drain.

Clean, if damp, he feels less...frayed...and more able to face his Champion, if no one else. He regrets, now, that he hasn't taken her up on her offer to teach him how to traverse the Twisting Nether. It would have been nice to be able to visit her without anyone knowing, but no - her guards would know as long as they were doing their job. It is a grim comfort to him as he stalks through the halls, guards in tow, that no one will dare ask him anything.

She drops her disguise the instant the door clicks shut behind him, almost before he drops his. Somehow, she had to know he was coming - she was waiting for him, just like the first time he told her to stay until he came back. The message of obedience is not lost on him, nor is the look of mingled dread and longing. It is the first time she has greeted his arrival with fear rather than joy, and he suddenly remembers her terror at the thought that he might reject her.

_Has she spent the last few hours thinking – no, no, forgive me, my Champion! I didn't mean-_

He does not give the guilt time to sink its claws into him; one step and he is able to wrap his arms around her. She shudders once before nestling against him, trust implicit in her cheek against his chest.

"You did nothing wrong," he growls. "I...did not sleep well."

"Are you okay?"

Some of his tension turns to relief. _She didn't pry. She's not upset with me. I don't deserve her._ "Better, now." After a moment, he says awkwardly, "I did not intend to worry you."

"You don't have to hide from me, Kal'shan," she says softly.

_Oh, but I do. If you knew how broken I am, you would find someone else to serve._ His arms tighten around her in a mute expression of everything he can't bring himself to say.

"I don't care what happens." She sounds...desperate, like she's making a confession. The fear that he will reject her makes her voice tremble. "I just want to help you. Serve you." Now _her_ arms tighten around _him_. "I can't do any of that if you don't let me."

He doubts she knows how badly he needs this, needs to believe that she knows what she's talking about. On the other hand, he doubts she knows how shaken he is that he came so close to unintentionally ruining everything again.

"I know I'm still young and...and...and not trained very well in some areas, and you deserve better than me, but-"

"No."

She lifts her head off his chest, leaning back to look at him in shock.

"No," he says in a more gentle tone. "I would say that it is _you_ who deserves better than _me_." The smirk he tries to give her comes out looking more like a grimace. "However, I am loathe to relinquish you."

"I wouldn't go, anyway." Her matter-of-fact tone warms a tiny corner of his heart. "I'm _your_ Champion. I..." All her teenage awkwardness floods back, and she drops her eyes to where her hands are spread against his chest. "I'd do _anything_ for you," she whispers. "Please..."

It's not the first time anyone has begged him for anything, not by a long shot. However, it _is_ the first time that anyone has proven to be both this trustworthy, and genuinely eager to serve. He has the sudden conviction that if he said _no_, he would break her heart. For all the magic he commands, he's never had that particular power over anyone. He pulls her back against him, one hand sliding through her hair, confident this time that he won't harm her. For a long moment, he is unable to speak past the unnamed emotions that choke him. Then he swallows, roughly shoving aside his pride.

"You will need to be patient with me," he says quickly. This moment of vulnerability won't last. "I will not always be able to tell you what I need. You have already proven yourself adept at seeing what needs to be done and doing it, so I...command you to keep doing that."

"I will, Kal'shan, I promise!"

"I will hold you to that, my Champion." The emotions surging through him, which he refuses to name, turn his voice into a rough growl - but she doesn't mind. After a moment, he releases her gently. "Now...since my schedule for today has cleared up, I will take you up on your offer to teach me how to traverse the Twisting Nether."

Oh _yes_, that's the smile.


	38. We could have told him that

_Best day ever._

Sighing happily, she sprawls sideways across her bed, one pillow clutched to her chest. Oh, sure, it sucked _royally _for those few hours where she thought he was rejecting her, and it was a bit nerve-wracking teaching him about phasing into the Nether without letting _too _much slip about Nathrezim mind magic, but all in all...

_He wants me to help. He _wants _me to help._

She would have done so anyway, of course, because what he needed was far more important than how happy she was. Being needed just turned it from an obligation to an honor.

_He needs me. He needs _me_._

Heady stuff for the girl who'd been picked on by half of everyone she knew on Nathrezene and pitied by the other half. The Lord of Outland, the one who'd single-handedly made Azeroth too expensive for a frontal assault by the Burning Legion, a man who could _easily_ have upwards of two dozen Nathrezim supplicants accepted for consideration, someone she would _never_ have a chance to even get _near _on Nathrezene...and here, he was turning to _her _for help.

Some of the warm glow fades as she thinks back to their "bonding" on Week's Dawn. She'd focused mainly on Nathrezim biology and all but avoided the mental abilities, unwilling to say more than she had when she summarized the report he'd never actually collected from her. When she'd told him about Nathrezim society, she'd sidestepped the entire subject of romance. It made her uncomfortable, keeping things from her Kal'shan like that, but...

_I don't want him to think I'm trying to control him, or trying to compete with the woman from his memories._

She still doesn't know enough about him, about his past. The statues from the artistic visualization likely represent people who played important roles in his life, or important events that shaped him. Until they are complete, she will keep herself to the role of Champion. She sighs and hugs the pillow tighter. Teenage fantasies aside - because really, what Nathrezim girl _wouldn't_ fantasize about being alone on a world with _him?_- she knows that she'd never have a chance with him even if she ever manages to repair all the damage. Whoever Tyrande is, or was, she's far too important to him for her to compete against.

_It's okay. I don't need that. _She buries her face in the pillow, breathing in the scent of clean cloth, feeling her exhalation warm the resilient surface. _I'm content to serve him any way I can._

* * *

He frowns at the screen. After the emotionally exhausting day that started with attacking his walls and ended with the first taste of wind on his face in three months, he'd thought to relax by watching his Champion fall asleep. It puzzled him that his presence could induce blissful contentment like that, but he certainly wasn't going to complain. She'd looked so _happy _there, hugging a pillow, but now...

_Something has made her upset._

A quiet growl simmers in the back of his throat. Whatever has distressed his Champion, he hopes it is something alive, so that he can _kill _it, and thinking, so that it can regret the foolishness of its actions before it dies.

He wishes he dared ask her what made her unhappy. Does she know about the monitoring device in her bedroom? Would it upset her further to know that he watches her sleep? Do her guards watch her the way he does?

The growl gets a fraction louder. His dulled claws click against the keys as he remotely blanks the guards' screen and locks it. On his screen, his Champion sighs and relaxes, her breathing slowing as she drifts into slumber.

Should he? Would it wake her?

Each talon is inspected as best he can. When his sight finds no sharp edge, he tests each tip against the softer skin of his wrists. Finally, he licks each one. Only when the sensitive surface of his tongue finds nothing but smoothness is he satisfied. He stands in the center of his office and concentrates, feeling his body become _so_, and the world fades out as he enters the Twisting Nether, that nebulous realm his burning fel-green eyes perceive naturally. Seen from within, he can make out details he never would have guessed existed, even after ten thousand years. It would have been impossible to navigate the hallways of his capital like this, but he can see faint traces, creases in the billowing Nether that show him where he has been. He can also see the orcish magic that caused his Champion's conception - a gossamer strand of spiked chain so dark a purple that it looks black - leading from him to her.

How fitting, he thinks, and how like her. Orcish in origin, demonic in nature. Something that could be a weapon of terror and cruelty in the wrong hands, but subtle and delicate at the same time.

The chain leads him easily to her and for a long moment, he hovers beside her spirit. He'd thought that her sleeping form was relaxing, but watching her astral form is...enthralling. Flickers of color dart about like fish within the swirling lavender of her substance, crawl slowly like arcane lightning through the clouds of her being. Eventually, he fades back into the world and stands next to her bed. She's still sprawled sideways across it. He kneels slowly, careful to make no sound and not touch the bed lest he wake her.

She looks even younger, sleeping. Innocent. Oh, he knows her childhood was unpleasant. Perhaps even more so than his, because she had to endure it alone. Still, she emerged from it relatively unscathed. Is it fair of him to inflict his scarred psyche on her, to make her deal with his problems? If she embraces his rough edges, will he wind up slicing through that gentleness and ruin her? Turn her into something like him? Is _that _the truth behind the unhappiness he saw?

If that's the case, he doesn't think he could make himself give up the comfort of her kindness, even if it was bought at the cost of her pain. He'll just have to make sure that he doesn't hurt her, and trust Joshua to bring to his attention anything he's missed.

She looks...sad, now. He could never bear it when-

The thought is cut short before a name or face can bring bittersweet memories to slice through his fragile stability. For now, it is enough that his Champion looks sad, and that this makes him unhappy in turn.

Carefully, he reaches out and brushes a few strands of hair off her cheek, just like in his nightmares. Unlike his nightmares, his touch does not cause her to bleed. In fact-

His breath catches. As his fingertips skim her cheek, she stirs slightly, her sleeping expression now one of _longing_. His other hand curls into a fist, dulled claws digging into his palm without drawing blood. Holding his breath now, he lays his hand gently on her cheek and watches in wonder as she smiles in unconscious bliss.

Could it be? No, it's not possible. Too good to be true. He could never deserve something this wonderful - but he can't quite deny the evidence before him.

His touch makes her happy.

She's not even awake to be consciously aware of his presence, but his touch causes her to smile. Could it be, then, that what was causing her unhappiness was his _absence_? Slowly, he lets out the breath he was holding. If he's right, he can satisfy his selfish desire to keep her by his side and make his Champion happy at the same time. Perhaps as early as next week. He'll have to discuss it with her during weapons training tomorrow. In the meantime...

Reluctantly, he lifts his hand from her cheek. She frowns briefly, and he strokes her cheekbone lightly with his thumb.

"Sleep well, my Champion."

The frown smooths out at his whisper, her sleeping face glowing with innocent joy again. Quickly, before he can change his mind, he phases back into the Twisting Nether and follows his own trail back to his office.


	39. In which canon is neatly subverted

She knows something is on his mind, and not just from the way his haphazard defenses are bristling. They're sparring again for the first time since the meeting of his cabinet, and his attention is not on her performance. The rhythm of attack and defense _is _soothing him - but the strongest evidence for her Kal'shan's mind being elsewhere is that he's kept her going long enough that she can feel her muscles tremble. After one last block, she leaps back and drops the glaives.

He rocks to a halt at her unarmed gesture of surrender, blinks, and focuses on her as though seeing her for the first time. "Is something wrong?"

_Oh yeah, he's been out of it._"I need a break."

He blinks again. "Yes, you do."

Their hooves make no sound on the rubber mat; she follows him in silence, takes the stripped wire and drinks obediently. He shifts restlessly.

"Have you completed your uniform?"

Wire still in her mouth, she shakes her head.

"Finish it. I want you to start accompanying me in the mornings, beginning next week after our bonding session." He's just started chiding himself - that was _not _how he wanted this conversation to go - when her face lights up. "I want people to get used to seeing you at my side," he says more gently. "Do you-"

He breaks off. He _had_ been about to ask if she had any problems with that, but the look on her face makes it clear that being seen at his side is as enthralling to her as his uncovered eyes. Gratitude, and maybe something that could be called fondness, sweeps through him. Insecurity evaporates, replaced by a fragile sort of confidence: the fluttering trust that whatever he says or does will turn out to be the right thing. He swallows and assumes the mantle of authority, mildly baffled as always when that makes her misplaced worship stronger.

"Do you think you can get the uniform completed in time to attend Week's Dusk dinner with your grandparents?"

The growled demand electrifies her and she stands up straight, pride and devotion radiating from her. "Yes, my Kal'shan!"

"Good." The tone he uses implies that this is barely acceptable. She doesn't seem to care. "Now, if you have recovered, I want you to show me what you have learned. You have proven that you can defend; now prove to me that you can attack, as well."

He strides back to the center of the room and waits while she retrieves her glaives. At his nod she attacks, and he lets the refreshing experience of pure defense wash over him. It's not long before he starts appraising her technique. She broadcasts her moves, and she's still clumsy, but that's to be expected. Agility gives her a respectable amount of speed, but she doesn't have the strength to put as much force into each blow as she should. Well, that will come later. It's more important that she learn technique first; grace and power will come with experience. He begins testing her, deliberately giving her openings to see if she takes them. One by one he leads her through the positions, teaching her through experience which offensive maneuvers to use when, delighting each time she successfully executes the correct strike - regardless of how clumsily or weakly done it was.

It reminds him of when he was learning the warglaives. The memory of facing off against a laughing doomguard surfaces, disconnected from the events that came before or after it. From the broken time, then - the period of time he spent in Zin-Azshari, being violated and rebuilt into a weapon to be aimed at his own people and loosed. Why had no one ever understood that it wasn't his _fault_? He'd never _asked_ to be taken prisoner and tortured by demons. He'd never _wanted_ dreadlords violating his mind until he no could no longer tell truth from delusion. He'd _certainly_ never yearned to bring ruin and destruction down on everything he'd ever known.

Had he?

The world shudders beneath his hooves and his lungs heave as panic chokes him, but there is no air. He doesn't remember. Surely, he could never agree to any course of action that would bring harm to his brother, and _especially_ not to Tyrande! Surely...but is that the truth, or a manufactured memory implanted by his tormentors? Was he really such a monster? Was his brother _right_ to chain him beneath the earth?

She watches, terrified, as he suddenly sways and drops to his hands and knees, blades forgotten on the floor, gasping for breath. Did she hurt him? Did he hurt himself? His mind is a whirling mass of razor-sharp fragments; no way she can get inside to see. Not knowing what else to do, she kneels in front of him and begins stroking his horns. It takes a minute before his breathing starts to calm. She keeps up the soothing rhythm, humming a Nathrezim lullaby as she does. Another minute, two, and he shudders as the shards retract by twos and threes. She does not stop until he lowers himself to the ground slowly, as if in pain, and lays his head on her lap. Even then, she keeps running one hand up one horn while the other finds his outstretched hand and clasps it.

It doesn't take much more than a nudge to send him into a deep sleep.

The bladestorm really did a number on him this time. She bites her lip to keep from crying as she surveys the damage. Anesthetic-soaked veils will do for the fresh wounds, gelled to keep them in place until they heal. Most of the machinery is fine, just nicked. The parts that got knocked loose are easy enough to fit back into place, but the barricades...

She eyes the broken walls warily. Something got loose, something big, but where is it? Quickly, she stretches a ward across the gaping hole and ventures into the blocked-off galleries of torment. Whatever it was, its trail is easy to follow – there are huge holes blasted through his barricades and her walls – but she encounters nothing moving as she goes deeper and deeper until finally, she's at the Terminal Boundary. Realization hits her like a kick to the gut. These shards that litter the thick membrane - these are the ones she saw tearing up his mind. They are what tore through the barriers keeping his past sealed off. Whatever happened, whatever memories these fragments encompass, it is a threat to his sanity greater than anything she's yet seen. Grimly, she mixes gel with sealant and covers the lot of them with a veil that she then seals into place. The wall she builds to replace the shattered barrier is the strongest she can make, multi-layered and warded to answer to her touch.

With luck, she won't have to deal with that mess until she's sorted everything else out.

The walls and barricades the fragments chewed through are easy enough to repair, and it isn't long before she's back in his conscious mind. Movement from the pen made of self-loathing draws her attention, but it is only his sense of responsibility.

She blinks. The largest pieces of shattered dreams still stick out of it, bleeding, but there are a lot of bandaged wounds where there used to be broken promises and the ruins of good intentions. Quickly, she shifts to the artistic, native visualization, and the lumbering doglike shape morphs into the wounded boy. He smiles shyly at her and darts up, tugs her hand with his one good one, then darts away into the sickly trees and ruined buildings. Tentatively, she follows as he leads her between rotting trunks and tumbled stones until finally she emerges into a tiny clearing filled with dead leaves and browned grass. A patch of healthy, emerald-green grass no more than two handspans across, bathed in a column of silvery light, cradles a single cut blossom that glows in the moonlight like a star of flame. The boy is crouched on the other side of the clearing. He smiles at her again, this expression much older and sadder, and gently strokes one brilliant petal with a feather-light touch.

"Why are you showing me this?"

He doesn't answer in words. Instead, he stretches carefully out until he's lying on the withered grass outside the beam of moonlight, unbandaged eye fixed on the flower. With the arm not in a sling, he reaches out until his fingertips rest on the grass, the cut end of the flower's stem just out of reach. She gets the impression that he does this a lot, yearning towards whatever that flower represents.

"I'm not sure I understand, but thank you."

The boy smiles at her a third time, the innocent confidence of a child making her feel unworthy. She smiles back, and retreats.


	40. Never gonna give her up

When the world fades back in, he feels like he should hurt all over – but he doesn't. Not even his head, which should be throbbing with residual dull pain from the battle with his shattered sanity. It's been a long time since he had an episode this bad. He doesn't remember how long, exactly, and he is disinclined to go prodding his wounded recollections to find out, but he remembers that this was not an uncommon occurrence back before his imprisonment. How many times had he lost awareness, locked inside his mind, struggling to force the pieces into some kind of order – and woken up on the floor, or in his borrowed bed, in the company of what he assumed was a beautiful woman under orders to care for him with feigned tenderness?

For a moment, the vertigo returns. He can feel body heat beneath his cheek, and a female hand clasping his. Is he back in Zin-Azshari? Have the last ten thousand years been a hallucination? Then he realizes that the other hand is stroking his horn, not his hair, and remembers where he was when the fit took him. Where he was… and who he was with. He can feel panic trying to stir within him, but it seems to be as relaxed by her hands as the rest of him. With the intoxicating lack of pain lending an alien sort of freedom to his thoughts, he can admit to himself that he trusts his Champion fully. There is a nagging buzz of fear that he shouldn't – but right now, he can't remember what reason he could ever have to hide his weakness from her. The fear is dismissed, banished back with the memories of Zin-Azshari, and he turns his strangely effortless thoughts to the question of how to proceed. He marshals his will, ready to keep the conflicting thoughts separate through brute force, but there is no resistance.

He will act like this never happened.

Oh, he won't deny that _something_ occurred, but he will not display any shame or offer any explanation, secure in the knowledge that she will not pry. Yes, he'll just get up and-

He doesn't _want_ to get up. He's rather enjoying this experience.

"That's…really soothing. Thank you." Another time, he would have been surprised to hear gentle gratitude coming out of his mouth. Right now, it doesn't seem to matter.

"My grandmother used to stroke my horns, when I was little. Before I failed to grow into my father's power." Her hand tightens slightly in his. "I know what it's like to have no one that cares enough to touch you."

Briefly, he entertains curiosity as to what it would be like to have her this relaxed under his fingers. To play at courting the way the Highborne did, to try his hand at the intricate social dances he was always excluded from, either by birth or by the curse of his eyes. To make the grand gestures that never seemed to impress Tyrande, and watch them have their intended effect on Tessa.

Thinking about Tyrande brings the usual flood of bittersweet emotions, but somehow they're…gentler. With his Champion's hand running up one horn, thoughts of Tyrande don't lead to rage at his brother and he merely drifts in the flow of memory rather than being battered by the rapids. The current brings him inevitably to the truth he'd always turned away from before, knowing that acknowledging it would kill the hope that had nurtured him during his imprisonment: that he will never win Tyrande's heart. Even numbed as he is, that truth is a dagger in his heart and the pain it brings tears at whatever his Champion has done to spare him the agony he should have been feeling. The hand trapped beneath his chest tightens into a fist and he struggles to keep his breathing even. He will never have Tyrande's love. The dream he'd fooled himself into believing is a lie, and has been since before the Well was destroyed. Has everything he's done been pointless? What purpose does his life have, now? He reaches for the rage that has sustained him so many times in the face of despair, but it's not there. The pain rises, threatening to drown his tattered sanity and smother the will to keep the farce of his existence going.

_I like your eyes._ The memory of his Champion, dazzled by the orbs of shame that had horrified and repulsed everyone else, emerges out of the tide of despair.

_I'm afraid you'll reject me__. _Once again he watches as tears run down her cheeks. If the mere thought of not being able to serve him brings her to tears, what would his death do?

_No. I won't let that happen. I've ruined too many lives, I won't ruin hers. _The pain recedes, forced back by sheer will. The hypnotic spell of relaxation woven by her touch is broken; he can feel her start as he releases her hand and lurches up onto his knees.

She looks…concerned. Worried. Well, he supposes that seeing him fall to his own instability is reason enough for that. The grim scowl on his face can't be helping matters, either. As gently as he can, he cups her cheeks with both hands. She doesn't move, still worried but trusting him completely. At least one of them does; he hasn't really trusted himself since he had his own eyes. His head dips closer to hers, and he pauses. What, exactly, does he think he's doing?

He closes the distance and brushes his lips against hers ever so lightly.

_I'm making a promise._


	41. Undoing eons of trauma one hug at a time

She only heard the scream because she still had one mental finger inside his mind. Although he still looked relaxed, something was desperately wrong. The hand caressing his horn faltered, and with an effort she resumed the calming motion while she plunged into the native visualization of his mind.

The scream came again; the voice of a child, high and terrified. An enormous night-dark feline of some kind whined from within its pen, straining towards the path leading to the tiny clearing she'd last seen the injured child in, but it was hobbled by bandages and soft ropes. There would be no help from that direction. Her avatar plunged into the forest, wings pulled in tight as she ran down the path the child had shown her. When she burst into the clearing, she stopped in shock. The boy was standing defiantly between the moon-drenched flower, and...

_A black dragon. What in the Nether is _this_ supposed to signify?_

No time to ask questions. Whatever the flower represented, it was deeply important to her Kal'shan and this dragon was threatening it.

_Focus on the end, not the means. I don't need to know what the dragon _is_, just that it needs to die._

Two shining curved blades appeared in her hands, smaller versions of the Warglaives of Azzinoth that glowed the same purple as her skin. The dragon's snout lunged towards her, and the blades lashed out to meet it. The first strike missed the eye she'd been aiming for as the dragon jerked its head back, but the second blade bit into the creature's throat. The beast roared, tearing the glaive from her hand as it reared back in pain. One scaly claw pawed at its neck, knocking the glowing blade to the ground - where the wounded boy snatched it up and charged fearlessly forward to plunge it into the dragon's heart.

Just then, her Kal'shan stirred beneath her fingers, releasing her hand and forcing himself sharply up onto his knees. Concentration shattered, her avatar dissolved and she found herself abruptly back in her own mind. The grim look on his face barely registered; her concern was that the dragon-construct and her unexpected exit had damaged him somehow.

Or at least, it was her concern right up until his lips touched hers.

_I'm still not sure what just happened,_ she thinks dazedly, vaguely aware that he's pulled her into his lap and is cradling her gently, _but I think he's okay for now._

It's a good thing he seems content to just hold her, because he's thoroughly derailed her trains of thought. Part of her really wants to figure out what the implications of that delicate kiss are, but every time she tries to think about it, all she gets is '_Wow!'_and her thoughts dissolve into swirls of wonder and adoration.

His hand in her hair doesn't help much. When he hesitantly runs it up one of her horns, she can't help nuzzling his chest with a soft cry. He holds her tighter at that, a whisper of concern drifting down from his mind.

"...feel safe..."

Even that much speech is almost beyond her; she wants to absolutely melt down into a puddle of happy half-demon. It seems to be enough, however. His arms relax slightly, and one finger brushes the cheek not pressed against his chest.

_She feels safe._ That amazes him. Knowing how dangerous he is, knowing that he nearly killed her at least once, she feels safe in his arms. Can there be any more conclusive proof of her devotion to him?

_Would Tyrande ever have felt safe in my arms?_

He shoves the thought away; there's been more than enough self-inflicted damage today. It's enough that his Champion can be trusted to see him at his worst and not mock him or turn away, a blessing that she will do whatever-it-is to call him back when he is lost within himself, and a godsend that she feels _safe_ in his embrace. It still perplexes him with all the power over him she possesses, she isn't trying to use it to her advantage. She didn't try to sell her services in exchange for power or wealth, either for herself or for her adopted family. She makes no demands of him, in terms of objects, actions, or time. The few requests she does make are just that – requests – and if he refuses them, she does not fight his decision. On top of that, the demands _he_ makes of _her_ are met with an eagerness and delight that he has not seen since his brother was accepted as the demigod's student in the ways of nature.

He would be afraid of her having been planted here ahead of him except that she has never lied to him, and she has given him the means with which he could escape pursuit.

When she taught him how to shift into the Twisting Nether, she warned him that he wouldn't be able to see her trail the way he could see his own. He wouldn't be able to hear her presence as he could his brother's. Indeed, when he shifted into that nebulous realm for the first time, he saw the hazy black/purple/green smoke trail that he himself left and heard the faint baritone call of his twin, but he could not see her trail or hear the sound of her soul. Only the magic that tied her to him showed her which direction she had gone when she demonstrated moving, and left his immediate presence. Had there been anyone who could track him, she'd assured him, he would also be able to track them. He'd spent many minutes just standing there, listening in all directions until he was satisfied that no other blood-calls could be heard – and that he could see the trail that led away from this world. The faint path that would, if he chose, lead him back to the ruined planet he'd once claimed as his own.

Slowly, he trails his fingertips up the ridged surface of her horn again and feels his lips quirk in delight as she mewls softly. It seems the motion is as comforting to her as it is to him. When was the last time he'd been able to _comfort_ anyone? He can't remember. This, too, is a precious gift that she is unaware she has given him. In the wake of everything else that has happened today, the seed of a dream is born and for the first time since he was caged beneath Mount Hyjal, he does not move to strangle it before it can take root.

_Some day__…some day, my Champion, we will find a place where neither of us has to hide what we are, and there we will live happily._


	42. Meteorological anger runs in his family

As much as he would rather not move, he does still have things he needs to do today. Gently, he lifts her to her hooves and - yes, that is affection when she sways slightly, still dazed. Normally, he would be painfully anxious over how she was interpreting that kiss, but he trusts her to be patient and forgive him when he does not repeat it. No doubt he will be less blasé about this development later tonight, but he will deal with that when it happens. He does not want to ruin this exceptionally good mood.

"I will not be able to escort you back to your rooms," he growls softly, assuming his human form.

She nods absently and heads for the door, glaives forgotten on the floor. Has he really muddled her so badly? It sinks in for the first time that she really, truly, _likes _him. Not just as the one she serves, but in a way that could be termed 'besotted'. For her to be this spaced-out when she is normally very alert strengthens the warm seed of affection that has put forth tender leaves in his heart. Idly, he wishes that she were not a child. No matter; she will be patient. He can trust her to do that.

"You forgot something, my Champion." Attempts to throttle back amusement fail.

"Oh." The teenage half-demon turns back, collecting her glaives and mechanically putting them away before resuming her dreamy journey to the door.

"You forgot something else." _He_ did this to her. By the stars, he was enjoying this!

"Huh?" She turns to look at him in puzzlement, sees his illusions, and looks down at herself. "...oh. Sorry, Kal'shan."

He follows his properly-disguised Champion to the door and opens it, struggling to scowl and look unhappy. He doesn't quite succeed.

"You-" he points to a guard at random. "escort my demon back to her chambers." The habitual scowl makes a genuine appearance as the guard so indicated glances nervously between Lord and demon. "Is there a problem?"

"No, my Lord."

"Then why do you seem so...reluctant...to obey my command?"

The guard throws another, almost fearful, look at the tame demon standing off to the side in her own personal La-La Land. "The day of the cabinet meeting. We never opened the door. One moment she was just standing there, and the next - gone."

Warm brown eyes narrow. "I see. You witnessed a fraction of her power - the power that _I _command - and fear her."

The guard swallows. "Yes, my Lord."

One well-manicured hand waves dismissively. "She was obeying orders, nothing more. I commanded her to attend me; I did not command her to wait for the door to be opened. You do _not _command her, and your actions will not deter her. Now, I have ordered my tame demon to return to her rooms, and you are going to follow her as she does so. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my Lord."

Having the illusion of control - and therefore, responsibility - stripped away actually makes the guards more comfortable; there is a palpable release of tension in the air. The guard chosen for escort duty follows calmly as she walks by, still dazed by the day's events. A quiet chuckle escapes the Warlord. His remaining guards share a glance and unanimously, silently, decide to pretend that never happened.

* * *

"Minister of War Agnes."

"Warlord Raphael."

He scowls, as always, at being addressed by name...but War is blank-faced as always, and she brings him results and not excuses, so he lets it slide. As always. Ritual complete, he turns to the reason for this meeting.

"So. This region has been deemed fully pacified, our troops are free to move elsewhere, and you have decided to begin marching on...?"

War stands up, moves to the map, points to a hilly region. "Here."

He stands as well and peers at the map before pointing to a region containing a rich delta metropolis. "Why not here?"

"Too prosperous. If we move on them now, they'll fight, and we'll destroy half the region taking it. The hill region isn't as useful to us, except as an example. We were able to spook this region into surrendering because they have no standing army here, and underground cities are very vulnerable. The hills-region people are historically very independent and prone to violence; they won't surrender until they've been ground into the dust."

"Then we won't even bother making the offer. We'll just swoop down and crush them." He strokes his chin thoughtfully. "We take the hills, forcefully, and the delta will surrender to keep their _precious_ cities intact." The disdain in his voice hints that he has seen this tactic in the past, and has little respect for the city-folk who value comfort and submission over hardship and freedom.

"Exactly, my Lord," War nods. "If we demonstrate what _could_ happen, they won't be so eager for it _to _happen. I fully expect a delegation from them before we're even done taking the hill region."

"Hn. Well, when that happens, State will deal with it." He pauses, curious. "Is it known outside the mountain region that I have a tame demon?"

"It's public knowledge in the conquered regions and rumored in the regions bordering, but no one is entirely sure what difference that makes."

"Including you."

War hesitates only slightly. "Including me."

He smiles slowly, cruel anticipation licking the edges of the expression that he lavishes almost fondly on the hilly region of the map. "I see." The words are a satisfied hiss. "I shall have to arrange a demonstration, then."

A veteran of many battles before swearing herself to his service, War doesn't believe in anything she hasn't seen - but she doesn't disbelieve, either. "As you wish, my Lord."

For a long moment, he seems not to have heard her; his eyes trace the curves of terrain as though admiring a masterpiece.

"A storm..." he murmurs. "Let them feel the storm's rage...yes, it is only fitting. Minister of War, what colors are considered unlucky in the hill region?"

"Uh...unlucky? None that I can think of, but green lightning is a very bad omen."

"That will do splendidly. Make a few preliminary strikes, let our intentions be known, and announce that on Week's Dawn I will display my demon's power. Is there a religious center in this region?"

"No, my Lord. A few small shrines, but the populace is too fractured and independent for any spiritual center."

"A pity. I suppose the capital will have to do."

For a brief moment, War almost asks 'for what?' but decides just as her mouth opens that she'd rather not know. "Week's Dawn. Understood, my Lord."


	43. Return of the jammies

"Tessa?"

The silence would be worrying if he couldn't see her astral body glowing from the next room. He doesn't really want to wake her - not because he doesn't want to shake her from sleep, but because the idea of being in her bedroom when she wakes up rattles the walls he's locked his past behind. Instead, he settles on the couch with his wings hanging over the back and conjures an illusionary butterfly. He hasn't done anything this frivolous in close to ten thousand years, but the delicate spellwork comes back more easily than he would have expected. For a minute or two, he admires the dichotomy of delicate butterfly and evil claws as it flutters around his fingers, and then he sends it winging into his Champion's bedroom.

She must have fallen asleep, somewhere in the middle of getting ready for bed and telling herself that no, those teenage fantasies were totally improbable, because suddenly a tiny flare of magic is dancing before her eyes and her wings are stiff. Yawning and stretching and trying to focus on the tiny spell all at once don't work so well; she loses sight of the spell as it vanishes, and tumbles backwards off the bed with a yelp. The spell is forgotten as she curses fluently in six demonic languages and the orcish she learned from her mother, for good measure. Stiff, bruised, and groggy from her nap, she stumbles out into the sitting room where she is unsurprised to find the couch occupied.

There is an impulse to try to be elated, to be self-conscious about the frogs-and-dragonflies jammies, to wonder how the kiss has changed things in his mind, and to be worried that he's worried about how the kiss changed things in _her _mind. None of that happens, however. Maybe when she's more awake. In the meantime, her Kal'shan is beckoning her over and her head feels too foggy to worry about anything. She grabs her cable and curls up on the couch as though being snuggled up to every teenage Nathrezim's fantasy was a perfectly normal, everyday event.

"I woke you." Although he does not say so, his tone itself apologizes.

"Izzokay," she mumbles around copper and electricity.

His arm tightens around her. "There is something I need to discuss with you."

"Mmm?"

"I have told my Minister of War that on Week's Dawn, I will demonstrate the power of my tame demon. My thought was to create a storm above the capitol of the region we're conquering next and strike their government with bolts of green lightning." He pauses, internally wincing at what he's about to ask of her. "It would be done during our 'bonding session'." To his surprise, she lets out a relieved breath. "You are...okay with this?"

She nods. "I don't know how good I'll be at something that big, much less with people watching, so..."

_What? She thought-_ He can't help but stare at her, uncertain as to what exactly he feels at the moment. "I wasn't...You thought..." Deep breath. "I would not ask such a thing from you without your prior consent. _I _will cast the spell; doing so during our time together will only be to hide that fact."

"Oh." Well, _she _feels sheepish now. "...can I help?"

"You..._want_...to help?"

The look she gives him for that reminds him sharply of Tyrande; the same challenge, dripping with incredulity that he even _thought_ to doubt her. She _wants _to help. How did he not expect this?

"That...your assistance would be welcome, actually. If you could direct the lightning bolts, I would be able to make the storm that much larger."

_I'm helpful!_She beams at him. "It would be my pleasure, Kal'shan!" The smile falters slightly. "Can I see the spell matrix you're going to use, so I can familiarize myself with it?"

That takes all the elation out of everything. "Somehow, I doubt we were taught magic the same way - and we do not have enough time for me to teach you what I know."

Much more awake now, she ponders the problem. Actually, while she's at it, she ponders the entire situation. Why not? It's rather cozy being nestled against him, and since he initiated the closeness, absolutely proper. Healing his sense of responsibility as much as she did must have also taken care of a bunch of fears and insecurities relating to letting anyone get close to him, both physically and emotionally - at least when it comes to someone he trusts. Trust is still a rare thing for him, of course. Even if she gets everything fixed, she doubts he will ever trust easily again. For now, though, he seems to take as much comfort in simple physical contact as she does. Probably not the _way_ she does; he's awesome and famous, she's just a loser halfbreed. But still, he has a trauma tumor bleeding rage and pain related to physical and emotional intimacy. That's got to have left him hungry for being able to touch someone who doesn't hurt him and isn't hurt _by _him.

Curious now, she slips inside his mind. A cursory damage check shows a few things out of place, but nothing too bad - and yes, it is the same pieces breaking the same way. She'll have to find a way to make an elastic binding, but in the meantime she ties the halves together so that when he breaks them next, they can't go far. The responsibility-construct is patrolling, checking the various barricades and walls and strengthening them as needed. The bandaged parts seem to be healing well, even if there are still a few big, painful-looking shards jammed into it. As she watches, it stomps implacably over to a strange shape she can't quite identify before the shape is covered by some kind of seal.

Well, isn't that interesting?

When the construct lumbers on, she slips over and examines the seal to try to figure out what it is and what it's hiding. It's persistent, whatever it is - she can see the ruins of several broken seals around it forming a sort of raised ring that the current seal sits on top of. Sealing doesn't seem to work; instead of smothering this, it just hides it away - and whatever it is seems to be growing inside the seal. Why doesn't he just kill it? She touches it, and _she's a child _floods her with such iron determination and utter rejection that she flees. It's not until she is back in her own mind that she realizes the thing being sealed has to be some kind of thought regarding her - which would explain why he didn't kill it - that would be inappropriate for someone not of age.

There's not a lot of thoughts that fit those criteria. Elation rushes through her as her heart makes a leap of intuition that her brain reflexively denies. _No...there's no way. That can't be right._But no...running the facts through in order, it's the only logical conclusion. Well, it doesn't matter anyway. It's not her place to initiate anything, and she's more than willing to wait however long it takes for him to make any kind of move. Even just sitting here like this, being held by him, is more than she is worthy of, so if it never gets past this point, she won't be disappointed.

"Are you okay, my Champion?"

She blinks and looks up at him in confusion.

"You gasped," he says, frowning. "Are you injured anywhere?"

"Oh! No." Her brain works furiously and, amazingly, comes up with an explanation. "I just remembered that when two or more Nathrezim are working on the same spell, they initiate a mind-link to make communication easier." A purple blush climbs up her cheeks. "I, um, left before I finished school so I never got to practice it. But I know the theory! I've just never done it myself."

"A mind link," he says slowly. "Would that work?"

"It should? You're Nathrezim enough to walk the Twisting Nether..."

"We will need to practice, and we haven't much time." The frown comes back as he glares off into space. "Your uniform. Have you finished it?"

"No, Kal'shan," she answers crisply. "The embroidery is done but the jacket needs to be fitted and hemmed. I will be able to finish today, unless you need me for something."

"No...finish it. We will practice tomorrow, before you go to Week's Dusk dinner." The affectionate smile is almost painfully awkward, but the one-armed hug makes up for it. Reluctantly, he stands up, imagining that he can already feel his sanity eroding again as soon as he is not touching her. "I will return tonight to inspect your uniform, my Champion," he snarls, bewildered and gratified as always when his harsh tone results in yet more adoration.

Scowling and human he stalks out of the room, trying to forget how adorable his sleep-tousled demon looked when she stumbled out of her bedroom.


	44. He's hooked on the feeling

"Is something wrong, my Lord?"

Joshua turns away slightly and closes his eyes, instinctively bracing against the force of his Lord's glare. _He needs to hear it, he needs to hear it, he needs to hear it..._ After a moment, he steels himself and faces the glare head-on.

One manicured hand brushes dismissively at the assorted papers on the desk between them. "Your niece will be joining you for Week's Dusk dinner tomorrow." Half-lidded brown eyes challenge the smaller man to comment.

For a moment, elation fills Joshua, incandescent joy that Tessa was going to be allowed out of her...

...of her...

_She can get out any time she wants._ Joshua's exultation fades and he remembers how nervous his Lord has been in the past when it comes to treating his tame demon as anything but a trophy. _He's always watching. But there are no cameras in the quarters he gave us, are there?_

"You're welcome to come along." The quiet words hang in the air, to the startlement of both men. Joshua hadn't know he was going to say that. "...you'll have to put up with my mother, though," he adds wryly.

For a brief moment, the Warlord looks almost panicked, but it is smothered beneath distant superiority with a hint of amusement. "I would not be so presumptuous as to inflict myself upon her without warning." He pauses. "How much warning would you advise giving your mother?"

Joshua blinks. "Two weeks?"

"Very well, then." His lips twitch, amusement being suppressed. "You may assure her that I will neither kill nor eat her."

_...did he just make a joke?_ "Uh. I will do that, my Lord. Thank you."

One hand waves away the obligatory gratitude. "Now, tell me what you've found here."

* * *

"There it goes again."

"There what goes?" The other guard cranes his head to peer at the security screen. "I don't see anything."

"That's just it. Screen blanked out and watch this-" One finger jabs a key, and 'LOCKED - ENTER ADMINISTRATOR CODE' flashes across the screen before fading out. "His Lordship must have locked it from his office."

"Why would he do that?"

The first guard sniggers. "Maybe his tame demon is putting on a private show."

* * *

Behind the door, she glares in the general direction of the two guards. _They're soooo lucky I don't want to draw attention to how I knew what they were thinking._ With a huff, she turns away and peers into the Twisting Nether, where she can see the brooding purple mass of her Kal'shan coming closer.

He steps into the room as he truly is, and once again she admires his powerful build and smothers a wince at the ragged edges of his wings. She's almost forgotten that she was trying on her completed uniform, but his pleased murmur and gesture for her to turn around bring her back to the present.

"How well can you move in that?"

The fact that he sounds curious rather than doubtful means he is pleased with how it looks. A few twists and mock-strikes demonstrate that the uniform will not hamper her.

"Excellent, my Champion. I doubt you will need to fight in it, but…"

"Better to be prepared?"

"Exactly."

Any further conversation is interrupted by his hand lashing out and fastening around her upper arm, then pulling her roughly against him. It doesn't take long for her initial startled reaction to turn into a contented snuggle as he holds her close. A brief check of his mind reveals nothing out of order except the usual breaks, which she fixes easily. For his part, he is simply grateful that she isn't questioning this. He's not sure he could explain why he needs her in his arms, even if she asked. For that matter, he's not sure he can explain to _himself_ why he needs this. Such thoughts only lead to things he has done his best to forget, and he has no desire to poke at the scabs. Not with how badly he's been bleeding this week. When he holds her like this, he can forget some of how badly broken he is, and knowing that is enough.

"If you are up for it, I thought we could try the mind link briefly," he murmurs into her hair.

She nods against his chest. "You were never taught how to use your Nathrezim abilities, so I'll initiate the link. It's going to feel funny, and you might have a reflexive rejection to the contact."

"What does that mean, exactly?" The words come out as a suspicious growl.

"You might try to throw me out of your mind. The first time a mind link is initiated, the participants usually stay more than arms' length from each other. Reflexive rejections have been known to include physical reactions."

The thought that he could potentially harm her out of reflex terrifies him – but that fear brings with it the iron determination to not do so. "No." His arms tighten almost painfully around her. "I refuse to do this if I cannot touch you." With some effort, he gentles his voice and loosens the deathgrip with which he is holding her. "I _will not_ harm you. Not for this, not ever. So long as I can touch you-" He stops abruptly and swallows. _So long as I can touch you, I will not be lost in the madness. You anchor me. Your touch calms me._

"I understand," she says softly, blinking back tears at the thoughts practically screaming from his mind. "Are you ready, Kal'shan?"

He takes a deep breath and moves one hand to her hair. "I am."

Gently, she touches the defenses of his mind rather than slipping through them as she usually does. They bristle, but after a moment, open before her. She continues to touch them as she passes through, making sure that he is aware at all times of her presence. The defenses quiver and breathe around her, conflicting urges to block her out struggling against the inclination to welcome her further inside. Once she is past, she reaches out and touches several structures so that he knows she is inside his mind. It's not a true mind link as she has been taught, but until he is more familiar with his abilities, a true mind link is not possible.

_Can you hear me, Kal'shan? _she asks tentatively.

_Yes,_ he answers.

The tendrils of his mind twine around hers, feeling her out gently, getting the shape of her presence. She holds still, letting him get used to having her there. It only takes a few minutes before the nervous defenses close around her - not to block her out, but to protect her tendril. It feels like he's hugging her mind as well as her body.

_Is this a mind link, then?_ he asks silently.

_Yes, _she replies, _but_ _an uneven one._ Wordlessly, she shares the diagrams shown in her classes and the feeling that he would be more comfortable linking within his own mind rather than out in the open.

_…I concur._ The tendrils of his mind wrap more firmly around hers as though reluctant to let her go. _I have no doubt that we will be able to synchronize our casting this way. _Reluctantly, the tendrils start unwinding from around hers. _You need to sleep. I will return tomorrow morning for a practice session._

_Kal'shan? Is something wrong?_

"No, my Champion," he murmurs aloud, suspecting that she would be able to detect the lie through the link, afraid that she will detect it anyway although he can feel her gently withdraw from his mind.

"Okay," she says calmly. The lie _was_ quite audible to her, but so was the plea for her to not press the issue.

Nothing seems to be bleeding, so she drapes a veil over the trauma tumor caused by his imprisonment and withdraws. Whatever he intends to wrestle with, she doesn't think it will hurt him too badly, and having her in his mind seems to have been the final link in the chain that connects the idea of 'comfort' to her. It surprised her to see that association snap fully into place; she'd planted the seed of it, yes, but there are links there that she did not add – a lot of links. He _trusts_ her. The thought makes her feel warm and fuzzy inside. He trusts her, and if he is in too much pain, she has no doubt that he will come to her for comfort. That's more than enough for now; with the things she has caught glimpses of, he absolutely _cannot_ be pushed. Things will happen when he is ready for them to happen, or they will not happen at all.

That's fine; she'll wait. Forever, if need be.

"Sleep well…Illidan." She hugs him tighter, ducking her head to hide the blush caused by her boldness.

He tenses the slightest bit before relaxing again, the hand that had been in her hair now gently stroking her cheek. "You too…Tessa."

The way he says her name makes her shiver in the most delightful way. It is as though he were caressing it with his tongue – either that, or she's being a silly teenager again. Regardless, he releases her as reluctantly as his mind had released hers, and without another word he steps backwards into the Twisting Nether.


	45. History lesson with a side of denial

In the privacy of his bedroom, he pauses in the assault on his walls and contemplates the cloth binding his eyes. Clawed fingers trace the abstract swirls hiding unholy green horrors, and he remembers the delicate blush on her cheeks. Once again, talons scrape across the scarred surface as he growls in frustration. Why must she be so _young?_

A bitter chuckle echoes off the stone. Just as well that she is; he doesn't know what he would do if she weren't. He will acknowledge, in the deep silence within his own mind, that he feels very possessive of her - and why shouldn't he? For some inexplicable reason, he is the focal point of her entire existence. She pulls him back from the brink of insanity, soothes his inflamed psyche, and clears his thoughts. She lavishes awe and devotion upon him and is never upset at anything he does to her. She offers him comfort in his moments of weakness without ever taking advantage of them or thinking any less of him. She _actually cares_. She makes him feel as though he might actually, someday, _be _all the things she sees him as. He would rip the throat out of anyone foolish enough to question why he is possessive of his Champion.

Yes...possessive. He will admit to some small amount of affection, but isn't that natural for a servant so devoted? This is an area he has little experience in; aside from a sense of distant kinship with young Kael'thas, Tessa is the first new person in ten thousand years that he has felt any fondness for.

_I'm no good at this; I never was._

The problem was that he never had anyone he could discuss this sort of thing with, either before or after his imprisonment. Even if he could bring himself to admit - out loud - that he needed someone to help him thread the tricky pathways of the heart, who would he ask? Who could he trust? The end of the War of the Ancients shattered the trust he'd had in anyone but Tyrande, and he could _hardly_ go to her for help. Even if he took the time to trace his path back to Azeroth, and _if_ he found her alone, and _if _she didn't shun him for what he'd become, no doubt his brother would intrude to order him away again before he'd uttered three words. That wasn't even taking into account that he doubted he would be able to remain calm in her presence. He could never express his feelings to her correctly to begin with, much less with the added burden of knowing that she-

That she would never-

Eyes shut tight behind embroidered silk, he sinks to his knees. It hurts too much; he can't finish that sentence again, even in the silence of his thoughts. No, just as well that Tessa is too young to even consider anything. Better by far to just continue limping onwards as he has been, chasing a dream as unobtainable as if he sought the hand of the White Lady herself. Perhaps in the distant future if he is less broken, his sanity no longer in danger, he will be in a position to reconsider this situation. Until then, he will enjoy the devotion and comfort he does not deserve and ignore everything he cannot have.

* * *

She's not sleeping.

Oh, she's sprawled comfortably in her bed, wings limp, breathing even, eyes shut - but she's not sleeping. It's not worry about him that's keeping her awake; he's more stable than he has been in a long, long time, and he's forced himself back to functionality countless times in the past without her. Briefly, she bites her lip. The assault from the Terminal Boundary, horrifying as it was to her, hadn't been a cause for serious alarm to him. How many times would that have to happen for it to become just another annoyance to be overcome?

_I wish I'd done more research while I was still on Nathrezene. What did they _do_ to him?_

It was only understandable that with the fiasco the First Azeroth Assault had turned into, the dreadlords involved had skimped on the details as much as possible. Sargeras had been most displeased that their little project had turned out to be a weapon _for_ the other side rather than _against_ them. She was going to be on her own if she wanted to figure out the initial breaking and conditioning. Some things, she knew; the memory of losing his eyes was more informative than a non-Nathrezim would have believed. The sensations in his arms and chest could only have been from a technique that fell out of practice long ago – largely due to the failure of the First Azeroth Assault. Once, it had been common practice to make a partially-Nathrezim tool when conquering a new world. The surgical integration of magically-enhanced tissue ensured that the donor dreadlord would be able to track his tool and control it via the tool's new dietary requirements: infusions of magical energy. There was always an element of risk, but overall such tools were highly useful.

He was never intended to survive, she knows that. Half-Nathrezim were a danger unless fully controlled, a point she was made painfully aware of many times. It's not hard to guess that the goddess of his people fixed enough of the worst damage for him to fight his way back to something resembling sanity. At which point, according to the reports, he turned on the Legion and was instrumental in repelling the invasion. She's not sure what happened afterwards that led to him being imprisoned, just that there was some kind of "misunderstanding". That's all he told her, and she has no desire to wade through ten thousand years of torment to find the correct memory.

The records from the Second Azeroth Assault were more complete, at least. The loss of that orcish artifact, followed by the permanent death of the dreadlord it had been entrusted to, spoke quite eloquently. As much as Archimonde had railed at the Council of Nathrezene, their decision had been made before the Lich King had managed to engineer his own escape from the Frozen Throne. Azeroth was considered too dangerous for a frontal assault, and assault via stealth would be risky at best. Her father's report, embellished as it must have been, was the final straw. Even though the half-breed that took out Tichondrius had left the world of his birth, it was well-known that he could return to it at any time. Between that and the threat of the Horde, Azeroth was declared to be in a state of quarantine: too much trouble to try to conquer for a few generations, the same as this world she'd fled to when she came of age.

_Oh, they'd throw a fit if they knew what I'm doing. Fixing a half-breed already confirmed to be uncontrollable? It's like declaring war on the Legion. _She represses a feral grin. _He is my star; I merely orbit him. Where he leads, I follow…and I will _not_ allow anyone to harm him!_

Once more, she pulls up the schematic of the defenses she's spent the last week designing. Lattices, warded openings, cracks that lead to mazes of memories, and every single one of the classical approaches armed with a trap designed to incapacitate an invader with the dizzying effects of shattered sanity drawn from her Kal'shan's own experiences. Having grown up with bullying cousins trying to break her down before she became a threat, researching and constructing mental defenses quickly became a hobby of hers and this is the most hardcore set she's ever seen. Naturally, it's keyed to her touch. She'll still need to be able to get inside to fix things when they break.

_The question __is, should I install it without telling him?_ She rolls over and smothers a groan with her pillow. _I don't think I could bring myself to do that, but will he _let_ me install it?_

He didn't react badly to the linking; maybe she'll bring it up after their 'demonstration' on Week's Dawn. Give him time to get used to it, maybe plant the seed to hurry that along…yes, that's what she'll do.

The ruse becomes reality; she falls asleep surrounded by happy thoughts of his mind cradling hers tenderly.


	46. A taste of things to come

Together, their minds ride the wind above the mountain region where a small storm is brewing.

_See? Here, and here. I will bring them together like so._ The knowledge flows from him to her, years of experience with the tricky currents of Hellfire Peninsula and Shadowmoon Valley. Her silent amazement is deeply gratifying.

_How long did it take you to design the node that lets you see through the eye of the storm?_

_Such things were common back in the day._ He does not mention how long ago that was. _ The Highborne expected to be able to view their domain from the air without the discomfort of levitation._

_Now, of course, you could fly,_ she says wistfully.

No one has ever envied that ability of his before. _I will take you flying someday,_ he promises casually.

The pulse of adoration is tinged with the barest hint of romantic hope and this, too, is deeply satisfying. He has no intention of acting on it, of course, but he trusts that she will forgive him that.

_Watch; this pressure and this will create lightning naturally, but if you take this structure as a seed, it will form at your command. Do you think you can direct it?_

_That rock,_ is all she says as her mind wraps around the spell. The tension gathers, swirls around the arcane rod, and the air itself is ripped apart into a lance of raw, green-tinted power that strikes the indicated boulder with precision.

_Well _done_, my Champion!_

He can't help wondering what kind of mage she would have been, had she not been born ten thousand years too late and to the wrong race. Hard on the heels of that thought is the disfigured impulse that passes for his urge to procreate: the desire to pass his knowledge and skills on to a worthy student. He tells himself that this is not the time, that there will be more than enough opportunity to mold her into everything she could be – once this world acknowledges him as its rightful ruler. Deftly, he dismantles the small storm and is surprised by the pang of disappointment he feels from her.

_You can play with the lightning tomorrow,_ he chides gently, affection and amusement trailing through the words.

She laughs as their minds detangle, the first time he has heard her do so. It strengthens the warm feeling in his heart, knowing that _he_ did this. The sound makes him realize all over again that she _enjoys_ his presence, and his arms tighten around her.

"Kal'shan?"

There is no apprehension in her voice, only a tentative offer. Whatever may be wrong, she is willing to try to fix it. Rather than answering, he trails the fingertips of one hand up her horns and revels in how easily he just derailed her into melting against him.

"Joshua will be here in the sixth hour to pick you up. I expect you to return by the end of the tenth hour."

Although his voice does not tremble even the slightest bit, his mind screams fear and uncertainty at letting her out of his control for even that short length of time. All kinds of things she can't say pile up in her mouth, but she swallows them. Improper, all of them. She has to be patient…but she also has to find a way to soothe that fear.

Tentatively, she taps on the defenses of his mind, seeking permission to enter. They open in a jolt of surprise and practically pull her inside, his mind wrapping securely around her. She can hear his fear more clearly now, taste the pain of abandonment and the sour tang of humiliation he feels at knowing that she has seen his insecurity. Devotion bleeds out into his mind before she can stop it, raw concern and reassurance mixed with affection and longing. The flow only lasts a moment before it is cut off, and then it is her turn to share the tang of humiliation at having let her weakness show. What must he think of her, now that he has felt her longing? How arrogant she must be, to ever hope to compete with Tyrande for a place in his heart. But no – the tendrils do not retract, she is not ejected from his mind.

After what seems like forever, a strange gentle flow of trust surrounds her, a blank lack of rejection that soothes her humiliation away as being inconsequential. Shyly, she brings forth the idea she couldn't put into words: a monitoring node attached to her illusions, so that he could watch her at any time without the need for a recording device or viewing screen.

_You would let me-_ The awed thought is cut off. _If you saw that, then you must know that if I do this, I will not remove it._ His mind holds very still, every part of him tense. This is a test of his trust that she will not exploit his weaknesses. He did not mean to share that thought with her, not really. How will she react, knowing how desperate he is for reassurance?

_I know,_ she says simply. More devotion bleeds into his mind, the deep burning desire to serve him any way she can, a willing weapon of his command. If he needs to watch her every second of the day or night to battle the history of betrayal that haunts him, she will gladly submit. After all, she taught him how to get to her no matter where she is, didn't she? Why would she ever try to keep him from watching her?

His shock and surprise roll through them like distant thunder. She would-? But of course she would. She has. She is his to do – or not-do – whatever he pleases with. Even if-? Even though-?

_You need me to be patient,_ she answers both aborted questions, _so I will be, for as long as you need me to._

There are no words for that, only gratitude. He can feel her adoration as he gently, tenderly fixes a monitoring node onto the layered spells of her disguise and she slowly eases back out past his barriers. _Mine,_ his mind growls in satisfaction as he releases her and flexes arms stiff from holding her during their practice session.

She does stretches of her own, beaming in illogical pleasure at this mark of his possessiveness. _I'll never be able to compete with Tyrande the way I'd like to,_ she thinks from behind the privacy of her defenses, _but I belong to him and that's enough for me._

"Remember," he growls as the illusions cover them both. "I expect you to return by the end of the tenth hour."

The thrill of mental intimacy has made her giddy. "What happens if I'm not?" she asks impishly.

"Then I come after you." His cocky smirk takes her breath away. The giddiness must be contagious; he hasn't bantered like this in…in…in a very long time. A quiet corner of his mind whispers that it would be such _fun_ to chase her down for breaking her curfew, and he shushes it. She's just a child.

"I understand, Kal'shan."

The words are crisply obedient, but the echo of _you need me to be patient, so I will be_ whispers back from that quiet corner.


	47. Theatrics with a side of pie

Joshua isn't exactly surprised when two guards fall into step behind him, not with how edgy the Warlord was at letting Tessa out of his sight. The guards at her door are ready for him; he doesn't even have to slow down to enter. The two shadowing him peel off smoothly at the door, and he wonders briefly if this is what it feels like to be the Warlord.

The memory of murderous rage held at bay by sheer force of will surfaces. On second thought, he doesn't really want to know what it feels like to be the Warlord.

"Just a minute, Uncle Josh!"

Joshua grins as his pseudo-niece calls out from the bathroom. No doubt she's putting some finishing touch on her hair. The familiar domestic annoyance is almost painfully nostalgic - has it really only been just over a month? It feels like a lifetime ago that he watched double doors close and was certain it would be the last time he saw her.

"Okay, I'm ready!"

She grins at him as she flounces out of the bathroom, hair pulled up into the sort of high ponytail that was popular in his mother's youth and tied with a red ribbon. If she's trying to reassure her grandmother that she's not being tortured or ravished, she's certainly dressing the part. The long, loose skirt of heavy red fabric, the matching sweater, the pristine white blouse, the white socks with zigzagging red stripes that go up to her knees with little red tassels on the top - it's not _precisely _what Good Girls wore in his mother's day, but it's close enough to speak louder than words.

"Very subtle," he says dryly, and she shrugs. "All set? Okay then, let's go have dinner."

The guards fall into step as they leave. It's a relatively short trip, easy enough for her to memorize, and the apartments Joshua and his parents have been moved to are in a section of residential tunnels that's nearly as opulent as hers. The guards take up their usual defensive stance on either side of the door as Joshua unlocks it and steps inside. A quick look around reveals no one in sight, and Josh gives his niece a wink.

"Grandma! Grandpa! I'm ho-ome!"

"TESSA?" Clatter and clanging from the kitchen precedes the older woman that comes hustling out to give the half-demon a hug before holding her critically at arm's length. "You're too thin, doesn't that butcher feed you?"

For a terrible moment, Joshua is afraid that Tessa will take offense to the slight on her master - but she rolls her eyes with good humor. "Grandma, I don't _need _to eat."

"Of course you do, you're skin and bones." The older woman sniffs disdainfully. "I'm surprised that bully let you out of whatever dark, dank dungeon he keeps you in."

"He keeps me in a posh apartment, Grandma. I've got a huge bed and a huge bathtub and my own laundry facilities." The half-demon flounces over to the ottoman she favors and plops comfortably down on it.

"A posh prison is still a prison." Joshua's mother frowns, arms crossed. "He's got no right to keep you cooped up like that. What do you do all day?"

The serene smile Josh has seen once before makes a second appearance. "My job."

Joshua winces, but the explosion doesn't come. He's fairly certain he doesn't want to know how Tessa managed to prevent the rant he was sure was about to be unleashed by his mother.

"Joshie, go help your father set the table. I've got to finish this roast and get the pie out of the oven."

"Yes, Mother," he says, but she's already hustling back into the kitchen.

* * *

"So, Tessa," Joshua's father says as he lays a slice of roast on her plate next to sliced potatoes, salad, and roll, "Josh tells me you've actually managed to make a career for yourself serving our Lord. Is that true?"

She ducks her head demurely. "There's certain things he needs me to do, things that no one else can. I do them."

"This 'doing' better not be happening in the bedroom, young lady!"

"Grandma!" Tessa's cheeks darken. "I...no! He would _never_..."

The older woman pauses in cutting her roast as though it had personally offended her, pointing the fork at her adopted granddaughter. "..or _out _of the bedroom either!"

"No!"

"Ah-ha! No, but you _want _it to."

Cheeks burning now, the teenager busies herself with potatoes and meat. She can't possibly be expected to answer with her mouth full.

"I don't know what you see in that heartless warmonger," Joshua's mother chides.

Joshua does, but he has absolutely no desire to think about that right now. Or ever.

Tessa swallows. "He's not heartless," she says softly, eyes firmly on her plate. "He can be kind." There's so much more she wants to tell them about him, to make them see that he's not cruel, he's just lashing out in pain - but he would be _very _unhappy with her if she did so.

Silence descends on the table in the wake of her declaration. Finally, her adopted grandfather clears his throat. "Tessa, sweetling, I think you're seeing something that isn't there. If he has a nice side, no one's ever seen it."

"I have." Joshua isn't sure why he just came to the Warlord's defense, except that something in his niece's bowed posture reminded him of manicured hands clasping themselves so tightly that they trembled, holding back the fear that once offered freedom, his tame demon would never return to her gilded cage. "He goes about it sort of indirectly, but I have seen him do nice things."

At that, Joshua's mother scoffs disbelievingly and stabs a potato. "I'll believe that when I see it. Bloody butcher…"

Joshua's lips twitch. "Well, Mother, you'll have your chance. I invited him to join us for dinner two weeks from now."

Both his parents stare at him in horrified shock, but in his mind, this is more than outweighed by the surprised joy on his niece's face.

"Josh," his father says in a strangled tone, "what have you done?"

"He'll kill us!"

"He's not going to kill you, Mother."

"Why did you bring us to his attention, son?"

"Dad." Joshua takes a deep breath, bracing for the effort of trying to break through his parents' paranoia. "He doesn't just randomly kill people. I work with him. I've said things he didn't like, and I'm still here. Anyway, he promised that he won't kill or eat you, Mother."

"Aaaaaah! He _eats _people?"

"Mother. He doesn't eat people," Joshua says sternly, rolling his eyes.

"Don't you roll your eyes at me, young man," she snaps, histrionics forgotten. "Show some respect for your poor old mother."

"I'm sorry, Mother," he say contritely, leaning over to give her the expected kiss on the cheek.

"That's better." Mollified, she pokes her fork in his direction. "Now eat your dinner before it gets cold."

"Yes, Mother."

Tessa pops a bit of roast into her mouth and chews to hide her grin. Now that she's back, she realizes that she's missed her grandmother's hysterics. _I'll have to come back for Week's Dusk dinner more often,_she thinks, and then her train of thought is promptly derailed by the thought of her Kal'shan sitting at the table with them.

"Where's he going to _sit?"_

It's not until the words are out of her mouth that she realizes she's said them out loud. Hastily, she takes a bite of potato as her grandparents exchange a glance. It fascinates her the way they can communicate without either words or mind-link, each knowing the other's thoughts just from years of familiarity. _The head? No, that's your place. Next to Tessa? What, so they can grope under the table? Next to Josh. And leave Tessa on the other side by herself? Move Josh over, put him on the_ _other side? No good, it would be too crowded._

"Josh, does that fancy job of yours pay enough for a nice round dinner table big enough for five or six?"

It's Joshua's turn to be surprised, now. "I...if not, Tessa's expense account will. But-"

"If he's at our table, then he's family," his father says firmly. "We raised you with enough sense to pick the bad apples out of the bushel. You offered him the hospitality of our home, so we're going to stand behind that offer and trust that there's something there we just haven't seen yet." He smiles at Tessa. "After all, you were right about this little rascal."

She beams at her adoptive grandfather, then ducks her head slightly. "Thank you, Grandpa," she says quietly.

"Well, that's settled, and that's all well and good, but we have more important things to discuss." A lettuce-laden fork is jabbed in Tessa's direction. "Namely, what am I going to _cook?"_

"Oatmeal-raisin cookies?" the half-demon asks hopefully.

"Hmph. That's not a suitable dessert for a Warlord. He'll get my rhubarb-lemon pie and like it."

Joshua and his father share a look as the women debate main courses and side dishes.

"She really likes him, then?" The question is hardly louder than a murmur.

"She really does," Joshua answers just as quietly. "I think he likes her, too, but he gets...very defensive about it. Better not to mention it at all."

"Hmm. Well, she's old enough to make her own choices, and I trust she can take care of herself."

At that, Joshua laughs softly. "Don't worry about her, Dad. Worry about anyone foolish enough to get between them."


	48. Knitting up the raveled sleeve of care

The viewing screen on his desk displays the public room of her apartment, but he is not looking at it. His attention is on the monitoring node nestled inside the layered veils and illusions that make her look human, watching silently as she follows her guards back through the corridors that lead from Joshua's living quarters to hers. He'd thought that being able to keep tabs on her would reassure him. That it would be a suitable weapon with which to slay the nagging fear that despite everything, she will not return to him. Somehow, this has not been the case.

_She looked so happy. So comfortable. Why would she ever want to return to me, when all I do is make unreasonable demands of her? I use her shamelessly. I make choices for her. And when she complies, I repay her with sharp words in a harsh tone. She should flee while she has the chance._

He knows that if she _did _flee, he would track her down as she showed him, and bring her back by any means necessary. He also knows that he is being unreasonable towards himself, but he can't help it. Like an animal confined for far too long in a cage too small, he gnaws at himself when there is no other outlet for his nervous energy, and he has neatly reduced himself to a twitching, bleeding wreck.

Again.

She's approaching her door now, and suddenly he needs to see her smile, to feel her hands against him. Quickly, he keys in the sequence that locks the guards' screen. If he times this just right…

The door has just swung shut and she is halfway to her bedroom when he steps out of the Twisting Nether behind her. Before he can say anything, she whirls around with a happy little gasp and a smile that says_ the rest of the world just ceased to exist for me; you are all that matters_. Instead of soothing the bleeding places in his psyche, however, the devoted expression stings and causes fresh bleeding. He doesn't deserve such adoration; he is a monster. Not only that, but he is undoubtedly ruining her life by-

The thought gets cut off as she flings herself joyfully into his arms. In a flash, he is holding her tightly with his head bowed so that he can smell the alien floral scent of her hair.

"Oh, Illidan, it was so good to see Grandma and Grandpa again! And Uncle Josh said he invited you to come with me in two weeks." She looks up at him pleadingly. "You will come to dinner with us, won't you?"

"Of course."

The words are out of his mouth before he has had a chance to process what she's actually asked. Not that he would have said no to this request, but it surprises him just how deep the desire goes to do something, anything, for her. To make her give him the adoration he does not deserve. Oh, he is a horrible person for demanding her affection this way – but her squeal of delight loosens the knot of guilt in his chest before it can start strangling him. He's not accustomed to having said the right thing or chosen the correct course of action, but it seems that with her, anything he says is the right thing to say, and no matter what he does, it is never wrong in her eyes. It's a little disorienting; he keeps waiting for it to all come crashing down around his ears as it has so many times before.

Gentle fingers on his horns cause the self-destructive thoughts to still. "They're dry," she says softly, the barest hint of an offer in her tone.

Right now, he doesn't care that she likely saw his weakness and is deliberately offering him an opportunity for her to do whatever she does that takes the pain away. He seizes the opening as though it had been his plan all along. "With our…bonding session…being disrupted tomorrow, I thought it would be best to get the oiling taken care of tonight."

"Of course," she chirps happily, squirming gently out of his grasp to fetch the bottle.

In moments, he is seated on the couch and sunk into blissful numbness. After the week he's had, the pleasure of not having to deal with his broken psyche is beyond description. Her fingers promise gentle oblivion, and he takes it gratefully.

While her hands move of their own accord to rub the lightly-spiced oil into his horns, she slips a mental tendril past his defenses and sprays anesthetic foam all over the interior of his mind. After the week he's had, she wants to make absolutely sure that nothing's broken and bleeding where she can't see it.

The usual damage is repaired within seconds – she really needs to figure out an elastic bond for that – and she moves on to structures that haven't been broken in a while. Fixing them is easy, however – they broke cleanly – and she adds some ties to them just in case she has to repair them again in the future. Nothing else seems too terribly damaged; the barricades are holding, the sense of responsibility is still healing well, the rage slumbers inside its pen, and whatever's sealed beneath _she's just a child _is still firmly sealed.

_Looks like I've got time to try to make some headway._

She switches to the native visualization and turns her attention to the battered, chipped statues that dot his mental landscape. It won't be hard to pick out the stone chips from the rest of the debris that litters the ground, but the broken bits and the statues themselves will need to be cleaned before she can even start trying to figure out which pieces go to which statue. There's moss growing on several – an unhealthy-looking, almost malevolent moss – and nasty unidentified gunk built up nearly every place the moss isn't. Initially, she'd thought the statues were carved from a dark stone, but on closer examination she realizes they're white marble. This is going to take a _lot _of cleaning.

Should she start with the pieces first, or the statues themselves? The pieces will be easier to clean, but he won't experience any benefit from that until they're re-attached. With a mental sigh, she concentrates on the end and lets the visualization provide the means. She has no idea what the bubbling, sparkling liquid in the bucket is, aside from some kind of cleaning solution. This is why she hardly ever uses the native visualization; she much prefers actually knowing what she's doing. Well, she supposes rubbing effervescent fluid on a soiled statue is easier than sorting out broken, rusted machinery. A small veil serves quite well as a cleaning rag; she dips it into the bucket and begins dabbing at the statue that looks vaguely familiar. Rather than dissolving the stuff staining the surface, the bubbly liquid seems to neutralize it. Just as well, she doesn't think having that stuff soak into the ground would be a good idea.

_Okay, this is going to take a while._

Several minutes of rubbing at what she thinks is the statue's face has resulted only in a lightening of the caked-on stain. Whatever the built-up crud represents, it's been there a long time, and it's going to take an equally long time to clean up. Well, she knew it would take a while for him to be healed of everything he'd suffered, and this statue is the most damaged, so repairing it is bound to have the greatest impact. She wishes she could figure out who it's of, though. The entire head is battered so badly that most of the face is gone. It's also got the most creepy moss on it. Concentrating on the end again manifests a spray-bottle of…she has no idea what it is, but it glows faintly lilac. A few tentative spritzes, and the soaked moss writhes and withers before her astonished eyes.

_The stain can wait._

Before she abandons the bubbly bucket in favor of the withering spray, she picks up a few chips of soiled stone and drops them into the effervescent fluid. If this test works, she'll clean the loose pieces by leaving them in the bucket while she scrubs the statues and the cleaning will get done in half the time. For now, though, she's going to spray this lavender stuff all over the moss and delight in its agonized death.

When the first patch is completely withered, she wipes the stone down with the soaked veil and is rewarded with a hand-sized patch of mostly-clean stone. She looks at the bottle in awe. Still no idea what the glowing stuff actually is, but for results like this, she could learn to love this visualization. As much as she wants to spend the rest of the night killing moss, they both need to sleep before their spellcasting tomorrow, and she's already been in here for a while. The spray bottle is dismissed and the stone bits fished out of the bucket. They're measurably cleaner, which is a relief. She sets them by the statue's left foot and dismisses the bucket before slipping back out of his mind.

He returns to awareness suddenly the instant her hands leave his horns. Deeply relaxed, yes, and not in the slightest bit of pain, but there is no haze of pleasant numbness like there has been in the past. He feels like a nightsaber: capable and confident should anything threaten him, but otherwise too comfortable to bother moving. The slight stiffness of his muscles hints that she's taken longer this session than she has before, so perhaps whatever she does that results in a 'good mood' has already worn off. Still, for him to feel this good even after the 'good mood' has faded…there is no doubt in his mind that she is somehow healing him.

_After ten thousand years, I am finally being given my due._ A soft chuckle escapes him as he stands up and catches her wrist before she can put the oil away. She snuggles up against him without needing to be urged, and he indulges himself by running his fingers through her hair and across her cheek. _Yes…finally, someone appreciates everything I have done. Oh, my young Champion – someday I will be able to tell you how much this means to me. But not now, not yet._

"Sleep," he says quietly. "You will need your strength for tomorrow."

He slips back through the Twisting Nether and stretches out on the cool silk sheets of his bed. The fabric warms beneath his body and although the barriers hold, his dreams are shadowy mazes full of soft skin and long hair that slides over him in a waterfall caress.


	49. World premier

Again their minds fly, intertwined, far above their bodies. She watches in silent awe as he bends the sky to his will, the storm forming with ominous speed over the capital of the hill region. It is significantly larger and more volatile than the one they'd used for practice yesterday. While he herds the clouds and whips them into a frenzy, she peers through the focus and familiarizes herself with the city below. It will be her job to strike the most important buildings with green lightning, reducing them to rubble. She understands why he is doing this, of course. Demoralization is an important tool of conquest. None of her teachers ever taught this specific application, but they also didn't have the knowledge of Kal'dorei spellwork that her Kal'shan does.

Beside her on the couch, he lets out a quiet sound of satisfaction as the storm leaps into full rage. The spell rod is easy enough to construct on her own; she sips from the copper nozzle clenched between her teeth and selects her first target.

It's showtime.

In the doomed city, the skeptical inhabitants eye the storm. Their news media had shared the Warlord's announcement, of course, but treated it as a joke. A tame demon? Really? They weren't as gullible as the sissies in the mountains. The demons had all been driven off decades ago, this had to be a bluff. The media had issued a mocking warning to stay out of the capital - which, of course, meant that everyone who could possibly be there, was. Crowds began forming in the streets when the sky darkened, and the first murmurs of doubt whispered through the city like leaves blown on the unnatural wind. Now it is silent; the doubters are quiet out of fear, and the skeptics out of unease. Surely this storm is a coincidence, right? A freak occurrence. It's just a thunderstorm, what could it possibly-

The first emerald-green bolt strikes the parliament building, as does the second, and the third. In the ominous pause after the third strike, the first screams can be heard. The silence stretches, dry wind howling in frustration as the lightning is held in check. The anticipation grates on the collective nerve of the populace.

_Cra-cra-cra-a-a-akc!_

Six bolts strike the parliament building in rapid succession and without any rain to keep the building wet, it bursts into flames. The screaming gets louder now as the government officials start fleeing, but this is only the beginning. Across from the now-burning parliament building is the highest courthouse in the region. Given the fierce and independent nature of the region's culture, justice is an important part of the government. The crowd is distracted by the building in front of them, and it is not until tortured brick explodes behind them that they realize the unnatural green lightning has claimed their hall of justice. Cries of despair now sound among the fear. As an afterthought, a single bolt of lightning blasts the head off the statue that has pride of place between the two buildings.

With two buildings ablaze, the panicked newscasters report that they were wrong, this was not a bluff. But it's not over yet, not by a long shot. The next building to be struck by bad omens is a towering commerce center. Not content to merely set it on fire from above, the green lightning works its way methodically down the side, striking each floor as it goes. By the time it has run out of floors, the tower is a charred wreck. The storm's fury pauses again, wind howling denial, and the city shivers wondering where the next strike will be. The answer comes finally when bolts strike every major shrine in the city nearly simultaneously. There is no question, now, that the Warlord does indeed have a demon at his command. Before anyone can come to a conclusion about this, however, the broadcast tower becomes the next victim of the storm and the feed turns to static.

Then the storm breaks.

The rain has a minor effect on the numerous fires, but serves to further fan the flames of fear in the crowds. The green lightning strikes at random now, as though the demon behind this unnatural storm had grown bored and is simply amusing itself. With no building or person safe from the unholy bolts of raw force, the entire city is quickly reduced to panic. The last target, just before the storm disperses, is the city's power grid. Soaked and smoldering, the capital goes dark. When the clouds cease their glowering and allow themselves to be torn apart by the winds, the sky that is revealed is a beautiful bright blue and the sun shines cheerfully from directly overhead. The return to normalcy serves to underscore the dreadful power of the Warlord as the people cower, afraid to leave their shelters lest he decide he wants to level the city entirely.

On the couch, she lets the nozzle drop with a sigh and leans against him contentedly. His fingers caressing her horns are all the praise she needs to hear to know that she has pleased him - which is good, because he doesn't know what to say to express his pride in her. Instead of letting her slide entirely out of his mind, he holds tight to the sense of her presence and lets her feel his emotions. He knew she wouldn't flinch at sending lightning against living beings, since he commanded it. What he did not expect was that she would be so...methodical...about it. There was no hesitation; once she had identified which building was which, she'd hurled green lightning with a deliberation that almost seemed planned.

"It was," she murmurs contentedly. "Tolzar's Order of Demoralization."

"You were taught-?" In his surprise, he releases the mind link as well as her horns.

She sits up and stretches before nestling back against him. "Young dreadlords are taught the basics of world conquest. Usually, Tolzar's goes more slowly than that because you have to wait for word to spread."

"Well, you performed admirably. No doubt the delta region is already composing a delegation." He pauses for a moment. "Are you prepared to accompany me in public, now that the world has seen what you can do?"

A light flush darkens her cheeks. "I forgot all about that. I was so excited to be doing spellwork with you-" she takes a breath. "Yes. Just let me change into my uniform and put my hair up."

It's a good thing she's going to be leaving the room with him, because otherwise he isn't certain he would be able to so easily let her out of his embrace. He chooses to not think about why he is so greedy for her presence, focusing instead on the meeting with his Minister of War that will be Tessa's first public appearance. By the time his tame demon has reappeared, uniformed and looking entirely professional, he has successfully fought back his possessive urges and donned the mask of cool, distant disapproval that looks so unnerving on his borrowed face. She flashes that brilliant smile at him briefly before she dons her own disguise, expression smoothing out into blank - but joyful - obedience.

"Follow," he commands casually, and does not look back as he leaves her apartment.


	50. The grubs are psychedelic

"Minister of War Agnes."

"Warlord Raphael."

There is a pause while War waits to see if she is expected to greet the demon, but it seems the demon is to be treated as a silent extension of the Warlord.

"You saw the feed, I presume."

"I did." War pauses again, still struggling to incorporate what she saw into her understanding of how the world works. After a moment, she decides to sidestep the entire issue. "We'll hit the capital while they're still demoralized. How much death and destruction did you want?"

He walks over to stare at the map for a long minute. "I want no pillaging. Try to keep the destruction down, but as for death..." he turns around again. "Anyone that resists, dies. Man, woman, or child, it makes no difference. I do _not_ want to have to deal with insurgents every time my back is turned. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"Good. And Minister...make sure your troops are prepared to follow my orders. Any soldier who does not obey this command is to be executed immediately, so re-assign any soldiers who would balk at this and leave them here, or send them to where they can move on the delta. There will be no mutiny in the ranks."

"Understood, my Lord."

"Now, what is your assessment of the demonstration of my demon's power?"

War flinches minutely. "I understand why you have devoted so much time and energy to bonding her to you. The thoroughness of her...demonstration...was admirable, and executed with textbook precision." She pauses. "If anyone had written a textbook on attacking with a lightning storm, that is. Given the one demonstration, it makes me wonder how we managed to repel their invasion all those years ago."

The momentary movement of her eyes, from her Lord to his demon, suggests that she'd hoped to bait the other female into saying something, but it is the Warlord that answers her.

"Fortunate coincidence," he says, one hand gesturing dismissively. "You can ask Joshua for more information if you are curious, but the demons began their invasion in this region-"

"-and ran into the problem of easily-defensible territory," War finishes.

"Indeed, as well as underestimating the technological level of the region."

"By the time they would have gotten out of the tunnels, the neighboring regions would have been ready for them."

"It was a fairly brutal defeat, as I understand it." Beside him, his demon moves slightly, and he suddenly suspects that this story has a meaning for her that is unrelated to Joshua's research. "Now, are there any more details that need to be discussed?"

"No, my Lord," War answers crisply.

"Then I leave the conquest of the hill region in your hands."

War salutes as he strides out of the room, demon in tow. He may have a hair-trigger temper and a heart carved out of granite, but he doesn't micro-manage her and that's good enough for her. _It's easy to find a boss who doesn't fly into murderous rages, she thinks. It's a lot harder to find one who doesn't think he knows your job better than you.  
_

* * *

"Minister of State Donald."

"Warlord." _Oh, he's brought his tasty little-_

"I trust you've seen the feed."

_-would love to get her alone and-_ "I have. Very impressive." _-bet she'd whimper prettily when I-_

He sits at the head of the table as though reclining in a throne, and she hovers silently to his right and a step behind him, trying to keep her face impassive. It's not easy to ignore the stream of dirty thoughts that come from the minister; he's very loud and visual in what he thinks is the privacy of his own mind.

"-chances of the delta sending us a delegation?" he asks, and she realizes she's gotten distracted.

"Oh, you caused quite a stir, my Lord," State gushes greasily. "The delta is swarming like a knot of eels in bloodlust. My sources in the parliament report that the Chancellor is likely to make a move within the next two days."

"Hn. And what preparations will you be making for this?"

"Already working on it, Lord. I knew it would just be a matter of time before..."

State continues with his explanation, fawning praise studding the description of accommodations and protocol, but she stops paying attention. That's not her job; her job is her Kal'shan's mind, and she stares blankly off into space as she slips past his barriers. Immediately, she realizes why he manages to keep breaking things and wounding himself. His mind is a very different place when he's not alone with her; many structures and pieces of unrepaired machinery are in motion as he takes the measure and motion of this particular ball into account and keeps it in the air along with everything else he's juggling. In the industrial visualization she prefers, metal screams against metal as broken pieces scrape together, gouging into each other. Rust makes other pieces groan, and broken ends slice into the scarred flesh of his psyche.

_What do I do with this?_ She stares in awe at the machinery that shouldn't be moving at all, much less with such speed. _No wonder he gets irritated so easily._ A minute or two goes by while she watches the motion and gets the hang of the rhythms, and then she dabs anesthetic into the fresh cuts and onto the deep gouges being scraped into the machinery. The broken ends are moving too fast to tag for later work, but she can and does tag more stable parts so that the next chance she gets, she can try to tinker with the machinery and fix whatever's causing pieces to scrape each other like that. When State gathers his papers and hustles out of the room, she slips back out of her Kal'shan's mind.

The oath he utters once the door has shut is fairly vile, and in one of the languages used in the Legion. He starts and turns as though he'd forgotten she was there, guilt written clearly on his face.

"I don't think he'd eat the grubs even if he could get them," she says casually. "He seems to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh rather than the mind."

The unexpectedly calm commentary causes him to chuckle, and her pulse races at having pleased him.

"Our next appointment is in the gym," he says as he stands up. "After that, you will return to your suite. You will accompany me during the mornings for the next week, and then we will discuss staying with me all day." The smile he gives her is warped and apologetic. "My schedule is not exactly thrilling," he says dryly. "You may wish to keep the afternoons for yourself."

She shakes her head. "My place is at your side. Doesn't matter if it's thrilling or boring or happy or heartbreaking. I am _your_ Champion-" she looks him in the eyes, her soul contracting into a dense purple cloud, "-and I _will not_ abandon you."

He gapes at her, wanting to crush her to his chest but derailed by another thought. "Is it my command, then, that keeps you in your rooms when I have not called for you?"

A soft blush colors her human cheeks and she ducks her head shyly. "I hear and obey the words of my Lord," she says, apology tangled with admiration.

_He_ commands her! She would spend the entire day at his side if he allowed her to, and remains in her rooms only because it is what he wishes. He does not deserve – what did he _do_ to earn such loyalty and devotion?

"_My_ _Champion,_" he says softly, imbuing the words with all the things he might someday say when she is not a child. Her answering smile warms him with the knowledge that if she heard what was unsaid, it just means that she will be that much more patient.


	51. It was going to happen eventually

Joshua does a double-take upon entering his Lord's office and seeing his niece standing quietly in the corner. It was one thing to know, objectively, that she has been joining their master during his morning appointments; actually seeing her there looking as blankly obedient as his guards is quite another.

"Does it bother you?" The amused look on his face does little to reassure.

"Ah…no, my Lord. I'm just surprised by how…official she looks." Joshua lays the thick folder on the desk and takes his seat.

He tilts his head slightly, weighing the smaller man's words. "You, who know her best, see her as being 'official'?"

"Yes," Joshua says slowly, unsure of where this is going.

"Excellent. I want her presence to be unquestioned in any situation; an extension of my position, like the guards."

"Well, she does that very well."

"Good. You have the information I requested?"

Joshua flips the folder open and leafs through a few pages. "Some of it; the rest will take time. The delta region didn't see much action in the war, so there's more rumor than first-hand account. So far, according to popular belief, a demon will have horns and fangs, blazing eyes – although the color varies widely – and possibly a tail but it may be hidden. A demon will be able to summon fire at will and can't be killed without heavy munitions. A demon's blood will be dangerous, although again, exactly _what _the danger is depends on who you ask. There's a rather vague reference to demons being able to 'see into the hearts of men'." He puts the last paper down. "That's all I've got so far."

There's an expectant pause.

"You wish to know why I have interrupted your work so suddenly for this."

"It had crossed my mind, my Lord."

"My goal is to take the delta region as peacefully as possible. I anticipate making a visit to its capital, and do not relish the idea of going in uninformed. Belief is a very powerful tool; I would have it work _for_ me rather than against."

"…and if you can tap into the public's fear of demons…I see. I'll focus on that, as well as appearance. You'll probably have to arrange a demonstration to prove that she really is a demon." Joshua grins sheepishly. "We worked very hard to find a mostly-human shape that didn't make people uncomfortable with her."

Manicured fingers flick dismissively. "Such things can be arranged. Before we touch base on the rest, I want to make sure there will be no problems next week."

Joshua stifles a grin. "None whatsoever, my Lord. There may be some histrionics, but Tessa and I can both vouch that she doesn't mean a word of it. Just don't let her get to you."

He frowns absently. Melodramatics are not something he is accustomed to. "I see. Now then, tell me what progress you've made on the…"

* * *

After almost an entire week, she has come to the conclusion that there's no way she can try to fix the broken bits while he's meeting with whoever it happens to be at the time. To try would only injure him, and that's absolutely out of the question. Instead, she's been spending the morning hours in the artistic visualization, soaking chips of stone in sparking….stuff…and spraying shimmering lilac whatever-it-is on what she has come to call the Moss Of Devouring Doom. It's a lot more fun than just scrubbing at the stains on the statues, and far more rewarding to see patches of almost-clean stone open up when the moss has finished writhing and the last withered bits have been wiped away. The naggingly-familiar statue has been entirely freed from the malignant moss, and the almost-clean patches shine in sickly-pale glory against the rest of the stone's discoloration.

The sense of responsibility, in its shape as the wounded boy, helps her sometimes. He never talks, and he's not interested in following directions, but he shyly offers her chips of sullied stone for the bucket and fishes out the clean ones. She's not sure what he does with them; he just darts off and is out of sight before she can start to follow. Wherever he puts them or whatever he does with them, she has to trust that it's not going to cause any more damage.

Idly, she fishes out a clean piece that he child hadn't taken with him. It's…a nose? She peers at the face of the battered, familiar statue. There had been moss all over it, but it's gone now. A minute or two of fiddling, and with a jolt of surprise, the nose nestles against a particular section of broken stone – but it doesn't stay. The thin film of built-up crud must be the problem. Not to worry; she dips a veil into the bucket and dribbles sparkling…stuff…onto that part until the marble is as pristine as the broken end of the nose. This time, when she fits the piece to the statue, it stays.

* * *

Finance throws a last sour look at the uniformed girl following after her Lord, thoughts like _exotic gold-digger_ and _public disgrace_ shooting after her like tiny darts. She ignores them; they're not worth bringing to her Kal'shan's attention. Especially not when her favorite part of today is coming up.

The doors close with a muted thud, and in the privacy of the gym they shed illusions and stand before each other as they truly are. He smirks in anticipation as the Warglaives of Azzinoth appear at his command. A few flourishes, and his Champion lavishes adoration upon him for that bit of showmanship.

"Will you teach me how to do that?" she asks breathlessly. "How you keep them somewhere else and then-" she gestures vaguely.

He looks in mild surprise at one blade. "I'm…not sure I can. I was-" _–very_ _insane._ _No, not going to say that._ "-it was a long time ago. I'm not sure I can remember how I did it initially."

To his surprise, she doesn't look disappointed. "If you ever remember, will you teach me?"

"Of course." How could he resist such an eager student? "Now, fetch yours. We'll run through the warm-up twice and then enter combat."

He'd thought to wheel on her once the second routine was complete and launch an attack without warning, but when he turns to face her, his blade met by hers with an impact so solid that she had to have been in the middle of her own attack. His lips peel back in a feral grin, exposing teeth sharper than any Kal'dorei's should be. Yes, this is how it should be. A devoted servant, an adept student, and an able fighter. Everything he could desire in a lieutenant. Her form is still sloppy, but her reactions are as fast as he could wish and she uses that agility to counter his greater strength when her own is insufficient. As usual, it takes a few minutes for her skill to ease the fear that he will accidentally hurt her, allowing him to slip into the soothing mindset where thought is irrelevant in the face of reaction, the rhythm of strike-block-counter and the purity of motion calming him.

It is a small sound that breaks this trance, and at first he is not sure what has disrupted the idyllic mindlessness of battle. Enough time has passed that he can feel the first stirrings of fatigue in his muscles, so she must be close to exhausted. That must be why she flubbed that last block and got a light gash across the underside of one arm. It's not serious, at least; barely more than a scrape.

The world freezes as he realizes what he's seeing.

He _hurt_ her.

"Return to your room immediately!" She pauses at his furious growl, but each second brings him closer to losing the control that's slipping even now. "DO _NOT_ DISOBEY ME!"

The raw emotion in his voice convinces her; she dons her disguise and marches for the door without bothering to put away the glaives. Distantly, she can hear her tell the guards that she was ordered to return to her apartment, and then the door shuts and he can let loose the howl of rage and shame that's been building inside him.


	52. Because the cutscenes didn't cut it

_Through the blinding haze of pain, one thought stands out: what did that demon _do_ to me?_

_Dead branches and dried leaves crunch beneath my hands. No doubt I'm getting thorns and stars-only-know what else in them, but I can't really feel it. Not when my fingers are white-hot rods of agony. I need to get away – until whatever poison this is either kills me or has run its course, I'm easy prey for any of the Legion's beasts that happen to fancy a crispy Kal'dorei treat. I'm leaving a trail that even the most sheltered city-dweller could follow, but I don't really have a choice. The last few attempts at standing up ended in falling, and more pain…so I crawl. My sense of up and down has been pretty well slaughtered by the searing torment that blankets me. It seems to be concentrated in my extremities – hands, feet, and of course, my head. Particularly my head, where it feels like blazing coals have been set into my temples. The last time I clutched my head, however, my touch brought yet more pain and on top of everything else, my stomach is roiling and it's hard to breathe._

_Maybe I shouldn't have consumed _all_ of the power in the Skull, but – if I hadn't, I wouldn't have been able to kill the dreadlord guarding it. The magic courses through my blood, fire and ice and acid eating me alive. There's no part of me that doesn't hurt. The demon's claws raked me in several places; I can feel the blood dripping down my sides and my face. There's irony for you. If I had eyes, I'd be blind from pain and blood, but since I don't…_

_My demonic eyes seem to be the only part of my body that isn't betraying me. I can see the forest around me quite clearly, even if it is a riot of colors clashing between the healthy hues of life and the sickly shades of corruption. _

_Ow!_

…_stones, however, are practically invisible until I find them by trial and error and my knee has just come down hard on one. I jerk in reaction and my body completely spasms, flinging me onto my side where I promptly hit my head against another rock and bite my lip hard enough that I taste blood. Maybe if I play dead, I can catch my breath and fool anything that might be hunting for me. Maybe…if Elune has decided to be kind to me after all those centuries of torment…Tyrande will convince Malfurion to come looking for me. Then again, it wouldn't take much – he's already convinced that I'm just waiting for the right moment to betray them all. A bloody chuckle bubbles up and turns into a cough. Hellfire, I wasn't even supposed to engage the demons – Furion didn't trust me to not consort with them. 'Scout them out,' he said. 'See if you can locate their leader but DO NOT engage him without us,' he said. _

_Fool. I'm more than a match for any demon. Do you think I would risk Tyrande's life so callously – as you seem willing to do – brother? Well, surely this time even Furion will not be able to find fault with what I've accomplished. _

"_Foul demon! What have you done with my brother?"_

_Fresh pain lances through me as previously-neutral roots leap to life and wrap themselves around my ankles, wrists, and throat. As they haul me into the air, I realize that I must have lost awareness – otherwise I would have seen the blazing green-gold of Furion's power or the unmistakable silver-white of Tyrande as they approached. There is a fleeting impulse to wonder why Furion seems to think I am a demon, but that gets trampled by the desperate need to breathe._

"_It is I…Furion…" The root does not loosen, and I can't blame it. That doesn't sound like my voice. "This is...what I've…become."_

_The roots release me all at once and I drop to the ground, crying out in pain as something in my back bends the wrong way. I expected nothing less from Furion, honestly. I turn my ruined eyes to Tyrande, letting the pure light of her wash over me. Any second now, I'll hear her crisp voice slice the air like a dagger, suggesting some arrangement for bringing me back to their camp and hopefully chiding my brother._

"_No! Illidan, how _could_ you?"_

_What's that, little elf? You thought you couldn't possibly feel any worse than you do now? Oh, foolish elf. Silly little pawn. Didn't you know that your Goddess hates you and your only purpose in life is to suffer? That was horror in Tyrande's voice, little fool. Horror and disgust. Whatever Tichondrius did to you has just cost you the last shred of affection anyone ever had for you. What, you wonder what lies your oh-so-noble twin told her to make her see you as a monster to be reviled? Nothing but the truth. Foolish little monster, no one cares about you. Haven't you figured that out yet?_

_Chiding myself doesn't lessen the pain any; it never did. But when you are alone with yourself, there is little else to lash out against. Still, I have one feeble spark of hope left. Surely, when they see what I've done…?_

"_The leader of the undead has been destroyed…and the forests will heal…in time." Instinctively, I raise one hand to my throat when talking hurts – as it is liable to do, when one has just been half-strangled by a root – but sharp pain blossoms where my fingers touch my skin and I let the hand drop. _

"_At the cost of your _soul_?" _

_My – what? Maybe consuming that much fel magic isn't something most anyone would approve of, but that doesn't mean-_

"_You are no brother of mine," Furion growls. _

_When have you ever acted like a brother to me, O mighty druid? _I_ am no brother of _yours_? Fine, then. The feeling is mutual._

"_Be gone from this place! And _never_ set foot in our lands again."_

_That's it, then? Bleeding, beaten, and half-dead, freed after ten thousand years of torture and agony only to be banished for accomplishing what was asked of me in the first place? Or perhaps you are banishing me in order to blind Tyrande to your arrogant ways, eh? Afraid that after ten thousand years, you'll lose to me at last?_

"_So be it," the words are spit – along with some blood – out of my mouth. "_Brother_."_

_Yes, walk away. Turn your back on me again, Furion, as you've done for ten thousand years. I'll show you! I'll make you admit that you were wrong about me. As the glow of their souls fades, the comforting flames of anger and resentment flare again in my heart. They'll see. I'll find a way to-_

Hands on his horns and a soft voice gently singing an alien lullaby break him out of the memory he'd fled to, reliving one of the worst experiences of his life as an alternative to accepting the reality of the injury he'd inflicted on her. She hasn't yet done whatever she does that takes the pain away; either that, or the raw agony has overpowered it. He feels lacerated, not just in mind but in –

_Oh. Well, that would explain it._ Thankfully, keeping his talons dull so that he doesn't cut Tessa means that he has some lovely scrapes and bruises, but clawing at himself has not left him covered in bleeding scratches. A small blessing, but one that lets him dismiss his injuries and turn his attention towards her, instead.

"I thought I ordered you to return to your rooms," he says weakly, throat tight and raw from muffled cries of anguish and the memory of choking roots.

"You did, and I did." Her firm, unrepentant tone doesn't soften the slightest bit. "You didn't order me to _stay_ there, so I didn't."

"I see. You just took it upon yourself to go against my wishes." The acid in his voice is directed at himself. He doesn't really want to be lashing out at her this way, but he can't help it. Some primal part of him, strengthened by ten thousand years of torture, realizes that he is vulnerable and is doing its best to drive her away before he can be wounded even more.

"My place is at your side," she says softly, hands leaving his horns to move his arm around her shoulders as she sits in the corner beside him.

_You have already proven yourself adept at seeing what needs to be done and doing it, so I...command you to keep doing that._ The memory floats up out of the chaotic sea that is his mind, even as his arm tightens around her in a mute plea for her to not leave, despite anything he says. Yes…he needed this, even if he thought he didn't want it.

"I hurt you." Changing the subject is the most admission of defeat he can bring himself to utter.

"It's just a scratch. Not even bleeding, see?"

The arm is presented for inspection and, as promised, it has already scabbed over. He traces the cut lightly with one fingertip, marveling that she has not turned on him for this.

"Why did you return?" He doesn't know why he's asking except that at the moment, he needs to hear some kind words to staunch the bleeding from that memory.

"I was worried about you." The words are a hesitant whisper.

_She was-_ "Worried?" He looks at her in shock, but she's ducked her head. Right now, he really wants to see her expression. One careful finger under her chin is enough to make her look at him, and the devotion he sees there eases the reflexive fear of some ulterior motive. "You were…worried?" For once, his voice is as gentle as he intended it to be.

She blushes. "I know it's silly, because you've gone through so much and none of it slowed you down, but…" Her gaze drops briefly to where her hand is splayed against his chest, then comes back up to his face. "I…you needed me. The first time we sparred…you were worried." She doesn't need to mention that he almost killed her; that thought is loud enough in his head. "I wanted to let you know that I was okay." Hesitantly, the hand on his chest creeps up until she is cupping his cheek lightly, skin barely brushing skin. "Are _you_ okay?"

Instead of answering, he pulls her closer and holds her tight. _Oh, my Champion – I am now!_

For a long time, neither of them move. Irrefutable proof that she will not turn away from him takes a lot of the sting out of the memory of abandonment, and greedily he wallows in the knowledge that she _cares_. Finally, he loosens his embrace and leans back slightly.

"You will need to traverse the Twisting Nether to return, if that is the way you arrived," he says without preamble.

She nods and detangles herself, stretching casually as she stands up before putting her forgotten practice glaives away. A cheerful smile and wave, and she steps out of the physical plane. Once she is gone, he groans and stretches. The meeting with his minister of Justice will have to be rescheduled; right now, he has no desire to deal with the petty concerns of conquering the world. Conquering a hot shower, or maybe a long soak, is all he feels up to dealing with this evening.


	53. A bigger step than anyone thinks it is

"They'll arrive sometime tonight," State says.

The Warlord frowns. Tomorrow morning - Week's Dawn - would be the most auspicious time to meet with the small delegation from the delta, but it would mean sacrificing his bonding session. Again. Rescheduling it for after the meeting will be risky; he does not want a week's worth of built-up irritation potentially fouling him up. On the other hand, rescheduling it earlier would mean depriving Tessa of her visit with her family. While she would likely give it up in a heartbeat at his command, he does not want to ask her to do that.

Her gentle touch brushes the edge of his mind and he banishes his churning emotions before inviting her in.

_I don't mind rescheduling our bonding session. Am I coming with you to meet them?_

_Of course, _he snaps at her, simultaneously bristling and drawing her deeper into his mind. After a moment, he loosens his reflexive mental grip and offers wordless apology.

"I will meet with them in the eleventh hour tomorrow morning," he says coldly before State starts wondering where his attention is. "You are dismissed."

The chubby minister retreats.

Before he can move, she is behind him with her hands on his shoulders, kneading gently. His surprise dissipates under the soothing contact, both physical and mental. Yes, it makes sense that she should substitute this act so that both their illusions may remain intact. Just in case.

_Who's the next appointment? _she asks silently, and it all becomes clear to him.

_If you are willing to sacrifice our sparring session-_

_Of course! _A pulse of devotion and adoration accompanies the thought.

Her hands withdraw, as does her mind, and he strides out of the room as though nothing had occurred. Instead of heading straight to the gym, he detours into the office of his secretary. For all that she's followed him around for the last week, this is someplace she hasn't seen and she pays close attention to everything. Drifting thought-motes from the guards indicate that the ancient, withered woman's name is Gladys and that she was the Prime Minister's secretary before his untimely death. She is sour and disapproving to everyone regardless of station or disposition, and the Warlord's office is just on the other side of the wall. The guards have never been allowed inside.

Leaving the task of scheduling in Gladys's cold, gnarled hands doesn't take very long. It also doesn't take long for her to realize that they're not going to the gym, and she chides herself for not seeing it sooner. Of _course_ they're not going to the gym, they're holding their 'bonding session' now which means her rooms so that she can oil his horns. At her door, however, he keys in the lock sequence and pauses.

"This station will be removed," he announces. "There is no longer any need for outside monitoring, as my demon now obeys my wishes exclusively. You will remain to ensure that her quarters are secure."

"Yes, my Lord!" the two guards chorus, saluting smartly and with some relief.

She follows him inside, the door closes, and she drops the illusions as she goes for the oil. Before she can get more than two steps past him, however, his arms go around her - wings and all - and he pulls her back against his chest. Uncertain, she checks his mind – but everything is whirling too fast for her to be able to tell what's going on beyond 'not hurting himself'. After a minute, his arms tighten, then relax.

"Fetch the oil," he growls almost into her ear, his breath stirring her hair.

Even implying slow, painful death should she not obey, his voice sends a shiver of excitement down her spine that flares out to the tips of her wings.

"Yes, Kal'shan!"

At her fervent reply, he lets go and watches with amusement as she dives for the desk drawer where the bottle of oil is kept. The reassertion of his control over her quiets the trembling uncertainty that had gripped him, and he lounges insolently in the armless chair as she applies oil to the soft cloth. The faintly spicy scent of the oil is beginning to soothe him by association before she even touches cloth to horn, and he makes a mental note to find out what's in it. If the association gets strong enough, he may look into wearing the scent as a way to stave off irritation without needing to make himself vulnerable like this. In the meantime, however, he fully intends to enjoy every second of the devotion she is lavishing upon him. With the soft cloth caressing his horns, he relaxes into the luxury of not thinking.

As soon as the anesthetic has taken effect, she leaps into action. There's a lot of work to be done, and not nearly enough time. First, she creates the elastic ties her evenings have been devoted to developing, and binds together the pieces that keep breaking. With how violently his mind functions, she dares not try to keep them from snapping again, but the resilient nature of the ties will bring the broken halves back together and let them keep functioning. Hopefully. If last week is anything to go by, he will be waiting for her to return from Week's Dusk dinner, and she will be able to check and see if the experimental ties served their purpose. As a control subject, she leaves one problem area untouched. If the elastic ties work as intended, she will need an unaltered pair of matched halves to see if breakage even occurred.

Once the usual damage has been seen to, she turns to the pieces of machinery she'd marked during her mornings and promptly stumbles to a halt. Thousands of years of being broken and forcing himself back to functionality have resulted in a twisted conglomeration of parts that are unlike anything she's seen. Tentative nudging only proves that she can't even predict how the various sections move. How is she supposed to fix _this?_

One deep breath. Another. _One step at a time. Focus on what can be done, and do it._

The machinery is rusty; that's where some of the damage comes from. She can start fixing that, at least. Most of the subjects she worked with in school were badly damaged – that was part of the challenge of the assignment – and while most of her classmates just muscled their way through the rust and corrosion, she'd always lacked that brute strength. The thin, oily substance she found a pattern for deep in the archives was developed specifically to lubricate rusted mental machinery while also dissolving the corrosion. Applied regularly, it would eventually help the subject's mind recover. She'd only ever used it sparingly, a secret weapon held in reserve that her classmates never detected in her work. Now she sprays it liberally over the dry, scratched metal, taking special care to get it into every crack and crevice. It will need to be applied as often as possible, and until she can figure out the motions of his strange mental machinery, this is as much as she can do.

* * *

He comes back to himself gradually, the pain-free haze not quite hiding the feeling that something is out of place. As reluctant as he is to resume what passes for his normal thought processes, the lack of…something…nags at him and he shoves the pleasant haze aside. Immediately, the problem becomes apparent.

Tessa is gone.

Panic surges through him, power flaring at the tips of his clawed fingers, ready to incinerate her kidnappers, but there is no sign of forced entry. The physical world fades out – partially because he wills it to, but mostly because fear has temporarily wrested control from him – and he checks for signs of recent spellcasting. Nothing. Just as he is about to step into the Twisting Nether to follow the chain that binds them together, a dark-purple cloud of living energy hurtles out of her bedroom and wraps slender arms around him.

The instant her fingers touch his skin the panic starts bleeding out of him. Without fully realizing how it happened he is holding her tightly, both in his arms and inside his mind, while her frantic apologies wash over him like a summer rain.

_I didn't mean to worry you! _

_I know, my Champion. _

_I'm sorry, my Kal'shan!_

"You're safe," he murmurs into her ear, one hand lightly stroking the ridged surface of her horns. "That's all that matters."

She subsides at feeling his touch, still bleeding agonized apology into his mind that conversely reassures him. How can he fear that she will ever abandon him, when she is so distraught over being unexpectedly out of sight for a few minutes? Despite his blind panic, he is calm long before she is and the unique experience of giving tactile reassurance further soothes him. When she finally stirs and withdraws from his mind, he loosens his embrace enough to tilt her chin up, smiling faintly at her tremulous expression.

One thumb brushes her lips and she looks at him, calm and adoring, willing to submit wholly to his will. If he were to…surely, she would forgive him? But no, she is a child, such things would not be proper.

"Finish your preparations," he growls, forcing the tender moment back into the familiar territory of master and servant. "Joshua will arrive shortly."

Her cheeks flush a darker lilac as she remembers that she is half-dressed, something that didn't even register while she was pressed against him in frantic apology. His lips curve into a slight smirk as she retreats to her bedroom, and the illusion of modesty. Yes, he could watch if he chose, and she is no doubt aware of that – but there was no hesitation when she offered to let him watch her from afar through the monitoring node. No, she laid every iota of privacy at his feet as a gift, a measure of her devotion.

Does she want him to look, he wonders? Is she hoping that he will be a shameless voyeur, spying on her in her most vulnerable moments? Perhaps, in the future, he will selfishly claim every second of her life as his, but not today. She's just a child. It is enough to know that he _can_; that very fact negates the need to.

* * *

Preoccupied with thoughts of the histrionics sure to come, Joshua doesn't notice Tessa's guards giving each other nervous looks – nor the presence of the Warlord's guards. He knocks on his niece's door, and it is only when his Lord calls for him to enter that he realizes something is different. With more than a little trepidation, he pushes the poor open enough to slip inside, and shuts it carefully behind him. As he turns back to the room, he is forcefully struck with the realization that he has never seen Tessa and their Lord together outside of the public eye. Somehow, even with the hints he's seen, he didn't expect his niece curled up on the couch like the teenage girl she is, snuggled up against a very smug-looking Warlord who has his arm around her.

"Hi, Uncle Josh!" she chirps cheerfully, looking for all the world like an ordinary teenager in love. When she makes a motion to stand up, however, their Lord's arm tightens and holds her still. Cheeks lightly flushed, she snuggles back into his embrace.

The Warlord's grin widens, the proprietary self-satisfaction of a film villain who has the girl on his arm, the world in his clutches, and the hero at his feet. Slowly, somehow afraid to break eye contact, Joshua nods. That seems to have been the right thing to do; the predatory aura softens and the Warlord gently brushes Tessa's cheek with his other hand, expression now a mixture of awe and adoration. The message is clear: regardless of the time she may have spent as part of his family, she belongs to the Warlord now, and he will do anything in his considerable power to ensure that she comes to no harm.

_Mother's going to have an absolute fit,_ Josh thinks with resignation. _No matter how many times it's explained to her, she refuses to accept that Tessa isn't the thirteen-year-old she appeared to be when she arrived. The idea of her "little girl" dating anyone sends her into throes of melodrama. I dread what will happen when she sees them together…_

"_I expect you to return by the tenth hour," _he says in the language of his birth, and his Champion beams at him.

"_Of course, my Honored Star!"_

The encircling arm retreats; she stands up, smoothing out the ruffles in her yellow sundress, and throws one last look of delighted adoration at him before following her uncle out the door.


	54. This could have been much worse

Joshua had hoped to be able to discuss things with his niece as they walked, but the guards that fell in behind them dissuaded that. He wasn't about to risk his Lord's wrath by exposing Tessa as anything other than a tame demon. He'd wanted to warn her about the scene his mother was sure to make, or ask her about the lightning-storm demonstration. Between her being with their Lord in the mornings and his work keeping him tied up in the afternoons, he hasn't had a chance to visit all week. In silence, he leads his niece and their escort to his quarters and with an internal wince, he opens the door and follows Tessa inside.

"Aaaaaaaaaaa Tessa sweetling tell me it's not true!" Joshua's mother, who had been lying in wait, crushes the half-demon to her chest as though clutching a mortally-wounded child. "Not my sweet little girl! It can't be true, I won't believe it!"

Joshua sighs discreetly as his mother takes Tessa's cheeks between her hands and wails, but the girl seems unfazed.

"What's not true, Grandma?"

"Tell me you didn't kill an entire city! Oh, my sweet innocent little girl – Grandma knows you could never do anything like that!"

Tessa grins indulgently. "I didn't kill an entire city, Grandma. I didn't even kill that many people. I just destroyed a few buildings."

Without missing a beat, the older woman switches from drama to reproach. "So calmly she says this, I can't believe my ears. We did not raise you to destroy buildings, young lady! You couldn't demonstrate your demon powers by making it rain toads or something, you really had to destroy those buildings?"

"Yes, Grandma, I really did. If I hadn't destroyed those buildings, the people in the city wouldn't have been scared of what else I could do. They'd never think of surrendering to the Warlord, and he'd have to kill a lot more of them for resisting."

At the teenager's serious tone, the mercurial mood of Joshua's mother shifts yet again. "I see. _He_ made you do it. Can't do his own dirty work, he has to use innocent girls to destroy buildings and terrorize people. I should have known. That butcher, that _monster_-"

"He's not a monster."

The words, hard as stone and just as unrelenting, slice through the rant and leave only silence in their wake. Although she still looks like a bouncy teenage girl, the illusions seem to be a cheap disguise hiding a very dangerous, very deadly, inhuman being. Joshua has seen this once before, when she declared that their Lord would never harm her, but it seems to have startled his mother out of her melodrama. Even Tessa herself seems surprised at the words that emerged from her mouth, but the fleeting expression fades into grim determination.

"Don't call him that," she says in a voice like silk over steel. "You can call him a butcher, a demon, a madman, a murderer, an animal – but don't _ever_ call him a monster."

Joshua braces for an explosion of clashing wills for his niece daring to talk back like that, but to his astonishment, his mother does something he's never seen her do before: treat Tessa as something other than a child to be fussed over.

"Why not?" The words drop into the silence like pebbles, calm and rational.

Tessa pauses. Until now, she hasn't questioned the certainty that still flooded her mind, but now she realizes that she has no logical reason for having reacted so emphatically. Slightly troubled, she prods at that resolute certainty. Was it an overheard memory that tipped her off? Something from the trauma-tumor tied to his brother? She can't put her mental finger on how she knows that being called a monster would slice right past the barricades and walls and leave her star bleeding, but she knows why.

"Someone he cared about used that word to hurt him," she says with equal composure. "He knows he's done things that a lot of people hate him for, and he knows that a lot of people call him nasty names. He expects it and it doesn't bother him – except for that word."

"You're a good girl, Jentessa," Josh's father says from the door to the dining room. "Why are you getting yourself tangled up with someone like him?" He gives Joshua a quick, minute nod to show that he knows what he's doing. "You know that he's not a nice person. _He_ knows he's not a nice person. Why are you letting yourself get so close to him?"

_How can I explain?_ She wonders in despair. How could she ever explain the magic that binds her to him, the burning devotion? The need to ease his pain, soothe his bleeding mind, reassure and support him? Serving him is more than an honor, it's the fulfillment of everything she's ever wanted, the validation of her entire existence. Even if she's never able to be anything more to him than a friend…wait, that's it.

"He needs a friend," she says softly. "He hasn't had one in a very, very long time."

Joshua's parents exchange a look that says _well, that explains it_. Suddenly, their heartless Lord doesn't seem as terrifying upon the realization that he _does_ have a heart, and the implication that he's ruthlessly conquering the world because he's been hurt to the point of striking back first. A sociopathic murder is a much more dangerous man than one who's just angry at the world because no one cares about him. Their adopted granddaughter's actions don't seem so suicidal anymore; if he has a friend, someone who is kind to him, maybe the world will suffer less under his rule. Or at the very least, they won't have to fear his wrath as long as they don't insult him outright.

"Are you sure you should be the one to do that?" the older man asks, and just like that, the serious atmosphere evaporates into a rolled-eye grin.

"I'm a _demon_, Grandpa. If not me, than who?"

He chuckles. "Fair enough. Table's all set, Evie," he says to his wife.

"I should hope so. Joshie, help your father bring the food to the table."

It's not until she sees the round table where she had expected a rectangle that she remembers last week's discussion, and her pulse races at the thought of next week's family dinner. Her hands trace the back of one chair lightly, marveling that in seven days, her Kal'shan will be sitting-

"He'll be between you and Joshie," her grandmother says, startling Tessa out of her thoughts. "No funny business at the table, mind. Or anywhere in this house," she adds with a sternly-waggled finger.

The half-demon rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "If he wanted funny business, Grandma, he'd have done something by now."

The older woman harrumphs as she seats herself. "Big bully, just takes what he wants. Thinks he owns the whole world."

Tessa smiles as she sits down. "But Grandma…he _does_."

* * *

Riding the wind above the mountains, the Warlord lets his attention drift away from the spell that allows him to spy upon his Champion. He would dearly love to gnaw at what he'd overheard – how had she known that? – but it would serve no purpose while she is with her adopted family, and he did not come out here solely to enjoy the ride. Thankfully, untangling the disrupted weather patterns snarled by the unnatural storms he'd whipped up is a complex enough task to distract him from the majority of the thoughts and fears that would otherwise tear mercilessly into him. He could probably ignore the disrupted weather over the mountain region – no one lives on the mountainsides, and there is no agricultural industry outside to speak of – but doing so would only make it harder to put the hill region's weather back to rights. Declaring war on the area and being willing to slaughter everyone living there was no reason to let the whole region suffer unnatural weather; they would surrender to him soon enough, and their farmland and forests would do his troops no good if they had been flooded or parched.

Besides, it was an excellent excuse to get out and feel the wind beneath his wings again.

Briefly, he had considered riding the air currents down to the hill region to check on his army's progress, but the notion was quickly dismissed. He does not relish the thought of accidentally being shot at, nor being so far away from his Champion. That thought is suppressed as well, and he turns his attention back to the air pressure he's been wrestling with. One last tug , and the sky grumbles as everything settles back into place. A sullen rain begins falling, cold and uncaring. The former Lord of Outland is soaked to the skin almost instantly. It fits his mood: cold satisfaction at having fixed something that he himself had broken in the first place.

Without the weather patterns to distract him, his sour mindset circles around and settles back on him, even as he wheels and lands on the side of the nearest mountain. It probably wouldn't kill him, but he still has no wish to be struck by a stray bolt of lightning. He knows he should return to his office, or to the gym, and take this foul mood out on the walls or burn it off in combat with imaginary enemies, but why bother? No one on this world cares for him except Tessa, and she's currently wallowing in familial affection, something he'll never have. The only family he has is his brother, who locked him underground for ten thousand years and then banished him. There is no one to express concern for his health if he stays out in a cold rainstorm, so in a fit of sulky anger, he does just that. The smoldering resentment keeps him warm as anger flows down well-worn paths, retracing his history and circling endlessly back to snarl at his brother, his jailor, his brother, the Burning Legion, the Lich King, his brother…

He shivers suddenly, the sustained trembling in his core that he hasn't felt since the snows of Icecrown, a bone-deep chill bringing him sharply back to awareness of the world around him. For one moment he wonders how long he'd been lost in the maze of his resentment – and if Tessa is back in her rooms yet. The rain is tapering off, and a check through the monitoring node shows that Joshua is leading her back to her apartment. Having sat in the cold rain now seems immensely foolish, and as he travels back through the Twisting Nether, he weighs the comfort of her concern against the shame of being seen in such a miserable state. No, he corrects himself, that's not it. She will not chide or mock him. No, the reason he does not want her to see him like this is that she inexplicably holds him in such high esteem that he does not wish to disappoint her with the reality.

Something twists and writhes inside him, and he pauses on the way to his bedroom. Anger at himself flares and roughly, he shoves the guilt and shame aside. Her place is at his side; the most distraught he has ever seen her was when she was afraid that he would not let her serve him. Time and time again she has proven to him that if he damages himself, she will be there to eagerly throw herself into trying to ease his pain. She is _his_ Champion; this is her duty. The only difference between this and War conquering the hill region at his command is that he has to command War.

He follows the chain of magic that binds her to him. He's cold and wet and wants to be bathed in her devotion, and now that he's thinking reasonably clearly again, he is very curious as to how she knew just what an effective weapon against him the word 'monster' is.


	55. She likes Motown, too

Author's note: the lyrics used are copyright to Clazziquai Project and VNV Nation and the songs should not be interpreted as being the actual songs sung in this scene. They should instead be taken as reasonable equivalents in terms of emotional expression and subject matter. Yes, I know her musical taste is eclectic.

* * *

She knows something is wrong as soon as the door closes behind her and he steps out from the Twisting Nether. The angle at which he is holding his wings and the way his mind is surrounded by blades – not whirling, but poised – suggests that his stern demeanor is a result of forcing himself to not push her away rather than a statement of being unhappy with her. Instead of flinging herself joyfully at him, she tilts her head to one side, curiosity and mild worry on her face.

"Kal'shan?" He does not respond, and she can hear the conflicting urges scream from his mind – yearning towards her, flinching away. Slowly, she walks up to him and takes one unresisting hand in hers. "Are you okay? Your hand is like ice."

"I was flying," he says reluctantly. "I got rained on, although the water seems to have not followed me through the Twisting Nether."

She tugs his hand gently, leading him to the couch. "Sit," she says firmly. "I'll get you a blanket."

Before he can react she's dashing for the bedroom. The down comforter that gets used as a body pillow more often than not is an abandoned pile on her bed; she snatches it up and murmurs a warming spell her grandmother used to use when she was little. By the time she drapes it around his seated form, it radiates heat and comfort. He does not react except to follow her with his eyes, and she has the unnerving feeling that this is a test of some kind. When she looks up from tucking the comforter around his ankles and over his chilled hooves, his expression is cool and remote.

"Is it too warm?" she asks anxiously, but the restless shifting of his wings distracts her. For a moment, she entertains thoughts of rubbing warmth back into them, and her cheeks burn. "I'll get another blanket," she says hastily, and retreats to the bedroom before he can do more than lift his eyebrows.

Once out of sight, she takes several deep breaths and chides herself fiercely. How could she even _think_ about being so bold? Even if he didn't know the implicit intimacy of touching another dreadlord's wings, _she_ did, and taking advantage of him like that-! Out of the question. A second, lighter blanket is imbued with the same spell of warmth and relaxation, and reverently she drapes it over his wings, making sure to tuck it in so that every inch of membrane is covered. When she comes back around the couch, she can see that his eyes are closed and his expression is more relaxed than remote. More telling, the defenses of his mind are open in a way she has not yet seen on him. Slowly, almost holding her breath, she cuddles up next to him. He does not move, except to thrust one arm out from under the comforter and pull her closer. The arm around her shoulders makes her move awkwardly, but she adjusts the blankets until his chilled arm – and by necessity, most of her body as well – is covered again.

His mind is still wide open, but as she takes a closer look, something seems…off. It's too quiet; his mind is never this still without the aid of gel of anesthetic foam. This must be a test as well. Instead of sneaking in, she lays a mental tendril on the retracted defenses, boldly announcing her presence without actually entering his mind. They quiver, telling her that she was right – he is holding himself open deliberately to see what she will do. After a moment, a tendril snakes past his open defenses and melds with hers. Gratitude and apology that she tolerates and forgives his unfair demands bleeds sluggishly through the link, and is answered by devotion and worry that somehow, she's not doing enough. That seems to be enough to pass the test; his mental tendril tugs hers inside his mind and the defenses snap protectively shut around them.

_How many times must I make you prove your loyalty?_ The anguished thought is accompanied by a tightening of his arm around her, and she can feel his breath on her hair.

_As many times as you need,_ she replies calmly.

_You know that I will do this to you again._ It's more of a plea, or confession, than it is a statement.

_I don't mind._

He says nothing, but the blades of his rage withdraw enough to loom within his mind like the limbs of some nightmare spider, ready to slice her - or him – into bleeding ribbons. A whisper of apology, the barest echo of begging forgiveness, and then he demands, _How did you know that I dislike that word?_

Another test. That's okay, he only punishes lies. _I don't know, _she says simply_._

The blades jerk in surprise, but there is no doubt that she is telling the truth. One by one, they file back into their enclosure, but a bone-chilling howl erupts from the cage of self-loathing where his fear is kenneled. The walls rattle, spikes clattering against her chains of reassurance. Before she can do anything, the bulky shape of his sense of responsibility barrels straight into them, knocking one section inward to impale the fear and keep it from breaking out. The howl seems to have awakened other things, though, because suddenly he releases her mental presence and all the broken, unidentified pieces are swarming about like angry wasps with no target. Nothing seems to be hitting her, and as she follows the path of one random piece, she sees it jerk _away_ from impacting against the soft flesh of his mind. His arm tightens painfully around her, and a small sound of pain escapes from between white lips and jaws clenched together until she can hear his teeth creek.

An answering whimper climbs her throat and with some difficulty, she wriggles one arm free. The ridged surface of his horn is cold beneath her fingertips, but she strokes it as best she can, desperately humming a Nathrezim lullaby to amplify the soothing vibrations. Inside his mind, the blades of his rage are now filing back out of their enclosure and…chasing after the swarming broken bits? The chaotic mess is whirling around faster now, but still not hurting her – or himself – and she does not dare move for fear that even if she withdraws from his mind without her tendril getting shredded, his defenses will close behind her. He seems to be aware that she is still inside his mind, but that means she risks revealing what she can do if she tries to calm the frantic dance of his shattered psyche. At the same time, she can feel her soul condense almost into a shell around her in response to his will, and she knows that she is the true daughter of her mother. That thought gets dismissed as irrelevant in the face of the utter certainty that her Kal'shan needs – no, _wants_ – her to do something to calm him before he breaks himself further.

To stall for enough time to think around her panic and his pain, she sings the lullaby both physically and inside his mind, struggling to project reassurance and calm. The sense of responsibility dashes by as though herding the shards of his rage, and she realizes that he's _trying_ to not hurt himself. Distraction, she thinks. She needs to distract him from whatever thoughts are riling him up like this. When the lullaby ends, she gropes frantically for something else to sing, but the only thing that comes to mind is one of the silly pop songs she enjoys listening to. The fear howls again from its collapsed cage and the sense of responsibility charges over to savage it. She has to do _something_, she doesn't know how much longer his control will last. Feeling very foolish, she starts to sing.

"It's gonna be a groovy night, everybody funk it up, you be good to me tonight, yeah…" _At least it's a bouncy nonsense song, _she thinks, _and not one of the mushy romantic ones._

Trying to project calm and reassurance when his distress is making her distressed is tricky, even when she's not singing a song that's anything but calm. In desperation, she brings up a memory of happily bopping along while singing this particular song and holds it out like an offering – or a shield. Some of the shards slow as they get near, and with a jolt of realization, she stops trying to project calm and concentrates instead on projecting joy.

"My memory of you are hangin' on a tree, I'm down, down, down, down, down…"

More of the whirling shards are slowing now, swirling around her rather than stampeding wildly. When the song ends, she launches into another piece of musical fluff. It's easier to project joy into his mind now with both his distress and her panic waning, and she starts adding notes of reassurance. The mad storm is becoming more of a swirl now, running on inertia more than anything else, and she wracks her mind for something she can sing that's both soothing, and not some kind of love declaration. The songs of this world tend too much towards the up-beat and romantic, but Nathrezim music mostly focuses on themes of power and victory, weaknesses and control. Well, she supposes that as long as the overall tone of the song is slow and uplifting, he would be soothed by a melody about seeking victory. After some quick searching through her memory and discarding ones that are too focused on anger or mention weakness too blatantly, she brings up the memory of one she thinks will serve and starts projecting it into his mind. The instrumental intro is long enough and unfamiliar enough that she gets the attention of the entire swirling mess and his grip on her loosens a bit by the time she starts singing the first verse.

"Find it within you, raise your eyes. Look beyond the place you stand – towards the furthest reaches, and to the smallest of things. The sound you're hearing is the symphony of what we are…"

It seems to be working – the lyrics tap into her welling devotion, and she can feel him relax as she projects that into his mind. The swirling shards begin settling back into inert debris. His fear ceases its restless motions, and the sense of responsibility fumbles the walls of jagged self-loathing back into a cage around it before herding the blades of his rage back into their enclosure and settling down in front of it.

"Through the storm fronts we will ever surely pass, to stand as never-ending light. Let there be, let there always be, never-ending light." The soothing reassurance and devotion she's projecting combine with the gentle motion of her fingers on his horn and the warmth of the comforter. It's too much; his breathing shifts and his arm goes lax. "Let there be – let there _always_ be – never-ending light." The defenses of his mind shudder and slide back.

He's asleep.

She wants to be giddy at this development, in relief or at the trust he's displaying, but she has a job to do. The first order of business is to lavish anesthetic foam and veils onto any structure that looks damaged, and the cuts he inflicted on himself while she was at dinner. The rusted pieces get another application of oil, and the structures that broke are repaired. All the ones she'd tried the elastic ties on are intact, but the control subject is in shambles. Whatever he did to himself, it was bad – but the elastic worked as intended and there isn't nearly as much damage as she's used to seeing. Once she's done tying everything back together with elastic sheathing the break points, she looks around for any other significant damage. The veil covering the Shan'do nodule has been ripped clean off, and the surrounding area is lacerated and inflamed. More foam for the cuts and a veil gelled and sealed into place take care of that.

On a whim, she switches to the artistic visualization and finds herself in front of a building so run-down and overgrown that at first, she takes it for the rotting corpse of a tree. Unsettled, she stares at crumbling stonework and putrid vegetation for a long minute, wondering what kind of building it was originally. Then she notices the slab of fresh stone in the middle of the rubble, covering what must be a gaping pit, and it occurs to her that the majority of the structure must be underground. If the little bit here is so damaged and sick, what must the subterranean part look like?

She does not feel remotely up to seeing what's down there.

The injured responsibility-child is asleep in the pen with the huge night-dark feline, who is _not_ asleep. It follows her with golden eyes, but does not growl as she passes. She's not quite sure what to make of that, but there doesn't seem to be anything else that needs her attention at the moment. The seed of thought that maybe his mental defenses could use some shoring up manifests as an acorn, and she awkwardly tucks it into a patch of dirt that looks like it was disturbed by a scuffle before withdrawing from his mind entirely.

_Now what? _she wonders. _I don't want to wake him, I can't move him...and he freaked pretty bad when he came to earlier and I was in the other room. _The obvious answer would be to stay right where she is, but that's a level of intimacy she's fairly certain she shouldn't be assuming without his direct consent. The question is, does preventing a second incident outweigh the impropriety of actually sleeping in his embrace?

Tentative motions to extract herself result in his arm tightening around her again and small, unhappy grumbles. The question of what's proper is moot: whether or not she should be there, it's where he wants her. With a mental shrug, she snuggles closer and settles in to sleep.


	56. The morning after

Disorientation and discomfort greet his reluctant return to awareness. Absently, he frowns. He doesn't usually feel this stiff when she's done doing whatever she does. Come to think of it, the pleasant haze isn't present, but his head doesn't hurt, either, so what happened? He remembers being cold – both physically, and to his young Champion – and that she tucked warm blankets around him. And then...yes, then he waited to see if she would take advantage of his apparent vulnerability, and she did not. He asked her how she had known – but she didn't know, and she was telling the truth, as she always did with him.

Unconsciously, he holds her tighter. She didn't know, and it wasn't hard to guess that the magic binding them together was whispering his deepest thoughts and feelings to her – not when she had more than once divined what he needed when he himself hadn't known. That conclusion had awakened the fear of having his weaknesses exposed, and the reflexive urge to push her away, but no…she could be trusted with his weaknesses, couldn't she? At that point he'd felt himself slipping into one of the spirals that led to pushing everything away until he could force his broken thoughts back into some semblance of order. Somehow, he'd retained enough control to keep from hurting her or himself and waited to see if she would again prove not only that she could deal with his instability, but that she could be trusted when he was most vulnerable. And then…

He frowns absently again. And then she'd…sung him to sleep. She'd distracted his chaotic thoughts with her joy and then calmed him somehow. For the first time, he realizes that he is stiff and disoriented because he fell asleep sitting on the couch with his Champion in his arms. In his-? Yes. He doesn't need to look to confirm that she is still there, but he does anyway because he can't quite believe that she is...that she is...

Suddenly shaken, he swallows and frees his other arm to gently caress her cheek with wondering fingers. She could have left to sleep in her own bed, but she did not. Instead, she chose to remain with him. She is trusting _him_ at _her_ most vulnerable. Grudgingly, he admits to himself that her trust might not be misplaced. After all, she was still inside his mind when he started losing control, and somehow he kept himself from either hurting or ejecting her. That thought causes the pit of slain hopes to tremble, and quickly he summons trusty repression to hide it from himself. If he allows himself to think about it, he will only ruin it somehow. After a moment, he takes the knowledge that she can learn his most secret feelings and locks it behind the barricades with the rest of the things best forgotten lest they devour him. That still leaves him stiff and sitting on a couch with a half-demon snuggled up against him, fast asleep. The pleasure at this unique experience is cut short by uncertainty. What should he _do_? What is he expected to do in a situation like this? What if he does the wrong thing?

It's a relief when she stirs and murmurs, "Kal'shan?"

"Wake, my Champion," he says quietly.

"Ooog, my wings are stiff."

They detangle themselves from the blankets and each other with awkwardness minimized by Tessa not being quite awake yet and stretch as best they can. The decision to not discuss the situation seems to have been reached mutually and wordlessly. _Because she knows that's what you want_, whispers his mind, but he ignores it. Come to think of it, how long _has_ it been?

"Sixth hour," she says, as though she'd been wondering the same thing. "Well, at least we have time for a hot soak before the meeting with the delegation from the Delta, right?"

The oath that leaves his lips is one he heard a satyr utter after he'd had his lower half forcibly separated from the upper. A hot soak didn't sound like it would relax him nearly enough for being diplomatic. "Gym," he snaps. "Now."

She follows him through the Twisting Nether and fetches her glaives. Side by side they run through the warm-up routine until neither of them wince, and then spar until she signals that she needs a break.

"Return to your rooms," he commands as she drinks electricity from the stripped cable. "Soak. Rest if you need to. I will be by to fetch you at the tenth hour."

Obediently, she nods and fades out of the physical world, leaving him to slice through imaginary foes while he wrestles with his own mind. He can no longer pretend, even to himself, that he could ever let her go or push her out of his life. Her presence and safety are no longer optional, and to deny that would only place her in danger. No, he has taken responsibility for her continued survival, and any plan he makes must account for that. The air resonates with the absence of his motion as he comes to a sudden halt, every muscle vibrating with the strain of holding absolutely still to balance himself against the inertia of his thoughts.

Her survival is as essential as his and must be accounted for, the same way his brother's always was, back when the demons first came. Even after-

The Warglaives of Azzinoth are banished so that he can press the heels of his hands against the band of silk covering what passes for his eyes, Tessa's painstaking embroidery hard against the smooth cloth, trying to focus on her adoration instead of the memory of green-gold energy cradled within a womb of pure silver-white. No. He will not succumb to his own pain. He is the master, the one death could not stop, the Lord of Outland and of this world. The memory of green-gold tainting silver-white will _not_ defeat him. There is too much to be done today, he does not have the luxury of falling apart so that his Champion can put him back together. _Even though I would dearly like to. _That thought is shoved behind the barricades without hesitation.

He feels oddly focused, as though the energy he would normally have spent fighting himself has been redirected and is his to command. As he returns to his room and steps into a hot shower, he can feel his lips curve of their own volition into a sardonic smile. If he found a way to reward her for this, would she guess that he was aware of what she was doing? The end at least, if not the means. Or would it only confuse her and encourage the...feelings she has for him?

Does he want that?

An angry snarl echoes off of polished stone as he increases the water temperature until scalding heat drives all thought from his mind, then turns it back down some. Later, he will wrestle with such thoughts. But not now.

* * *

Even though he told himself that, and firmly, he still finds the question circling like a gnat: just annoying enough to distract him but too elusive to swat. As he stalks through the halls with guards and demon in tow, he smiles darkly. The irritation will make him look suitably foul-tempered for his guests. It comes as a mild surprise to realize that although she is not touching him and he cannot sense her in his mind, he is not being plagued by the buzzing anger and frustration that usually swarm his thoughts. _Well worth stiff wings,_ he thinks as he settles into the massive stone seat in the vaulted audience chamber and gestures to the guards. The double doors open, and the delegation strides cautiously in.


	57. Can you see the impending doom?

Tessa stands to the right of the heavy, thronelike stone seat, trying to look like part of the background. Most of her concentration is on her Kal'shan's whirling mental machinery, and her blank expression encourages eyes to slide past her. Meaningless pleasantries flow over her as the three men and two women of the delegation enter and introduce themselves. Inside his mind, she watches in awe as the oiled, rusty machinery moves at high speed, elastic-sheathed mechanisms breaking and then snapping back into place. If she weren't painfully aware of how much damage still needs to be repaired, she'd be congratulating herself on how well the elastic ties are working.

A sharp thought from one of the three men draws her attention, and she withdraws from his mind; he should be fine for a while. It didn't take much to identify the content of that prodding thought – it was practically a _scream_ of doubt that she really is a demon. Opinions from the other delegates range from bodyguard to whore, and only the one in charge actually thinks she's something other than human. The formalities seem to be over. Now they're getting down to the business of their visit: inviting the Warlord to the delta for a visit, in hopes that an arrangement will be made that doesn't involve his troops marching through their capital. Something in the head delegate's mind rings false for the barest instant and she begins listening harder to him, but it does not repeat itself. While arrangements are offered and discussed, she debates whether he would want her to go into the head delegate's mind in the strength of one half-heard thought.

_Can you produce fire? _He demands suddenly.

Startled, she guiltily returns her attention to him. His mind's defenses are open and quivering, waiting for her to enter before they snap shut. She touches them, and they calm.

_What color?_ She asks inside his mind, and a spark of surprised amusement flares.

_Whichever you like._

"I will, of course, be bringing my tame demon with me," he says in a tone that makes it clear the matter is not open for discussion. "She will obey only me, and it's not wise for demons to be left unattended without orders."

She is mildly surprised to discover that he really means that, and is not just saying it as an implied threat. A parade of irritated images indicate the demons of Shadowmoon Valley learned obedience the hard way.

"You mean that girl, Warlord?" It's one of the women, the one who thinks she's some kind of bodyguard.

"_Show them some fire,"_ he says in the language of his birth.

"I hear and obey the words of my lord." A beatific smile spreads across her face, both at being able to serve him and at the spikes of uncertainty and fear that lance out from the minds of the delegates as they wonder what he's just ordered her to do.

Her hands come together with a loud clap, and when she pulls them apart, a bird of vivid purple flame hovers in the air between them. She makes a gentle tossing motion, and the bird flies a circle around the startled delegates, close enough that they feel the heat. Then it returns to her hands, where she smothers it gently.

"Yes," he says with lazily malicious amusement. "That girl."

The whisper of something unobtrusively rustles underneath the head delegate's words, but before she can follow it, the delegation is being dismissed to the quarters and entertainments State has arranged. Obediently, she follows him as he strides from the room, his boots clicking on the stone to echo down from the vaulted ceiling.

* * *

All through his meeting with State, she wrestles with the question of what to do or say about the vague…something. She can't reveal her unease without tipping her hand, and she doesn't want to do that over something so tenuous and uncertain.

State hurries out, leaving the Warlord alone with his Champion for a few minutes. He is moderately irritated, but nothing so bad as last week, and a far cry from the near-intolerable state that habitually gripped him before Tessa entered his life. Back then – was it really just a month ago? – he would have been ready to kill someone with his bare hands by this hour of the day. He regularly needed to retreat to the gym, where he would work himself half to exhaustion just to cool down enough to look at his ministers without growling. Memory tugs at him, teasing, tantalizing. He gnaws at it until it writhes open, spilling out the answer to the question that's been circling him.

"You will not accompany me in the afternoons this week," he says, and she tries to hide her disappointment. "I want your presence to become routine before we increase it," he continues in a more gentle tone. "Until then, however, your stamina has improved greatly. You may spend one hour a day in the gym unsupervised."

Her face lights up, and an unfamiliar warmth glows sluggishly in his heart. Yes, he has chosen the correct way to reward his young Champion – his eager young student, overjoyed by the "reward" of more work. They both know he expects her to practice with the glaives, and that she will push herself as hard as she can to do so in the time permitted. If only his other students had been so passionate in their studies! Again he marvels that her greatest desire is to serve him, and smiles faintly as another thought bubbles to the surface of the churning morass that is his mind. The greatest reward he can grant her is the opportunity to serve him, eh? Well then, he shall be most generous in his unreasonable demands.

"You will, of course, be coming to the delta with me, and you will need a more elaborate uniform if you wish to be present when I meet with the chancellor."

She looks ready to burst from delighted devotion. "Yes, Kal'shan!"

He leads the way out of the room, but stops just outside the door and points to a guard at random. "You. Escort my demon to her quarters."

"Yes, my Lord!" The guard salutes crisply and follows as she wanders off, trying to look attentive and not like he's threatening her.

* * *

In a fog of delight, she leads the guard to her rooms, where he nods to the ones guarding her door and goes back the way he came. She ignores him. An hour in the gym! She needs the practice, of course, but he has too much to do to waste more of his time babysitting one little half-breed. Part of her wants to change out of her uniform and go right away, but that would be irresponsible of her. She has all afternoon and evening free, but if she needs materials for her dress uniform she should send for them as soon as possible. Sleep can wait; practice in the gym can wait. Stores, on the other hand, usually close by the seventh hour of the night.

Decision made, she turns her mind to the task at hand. The cloth she used in her uniform is nice and sturdy, but it's hardly formal. If she gets the cloth today, she should have enough time to construct the whole thing – assuming she can get an embroidery design worked out. The question is, what fabric should she have Joshua bring her? Silk? Velvet? Satin? For that matter, what colors were the guards' dress uniforms? As far as thread goes, she has plenty of black and red, but a formal outfit should have more _sparkle_ than that.

The knock on the door is the sound of an answer delivered before the question had even been asked.

"Uncle Josh!" She pulls him inside the room. "I need your help!"

Her urgency sends a spike of alarm straight through his belly. "Tessa, what's wrong?"

"I don't know what the guards' dress uniforms look like!"

Joshua blinks. He'd taken the afternoon off in hopes of getting a chance to visit his niece and maybe talk about the last week; this was completely out of the blue. It can be taken as a measure of his character that he doesn't question why she needs to know so urgently. As with many other things in the last month, he moves on to a solution and mentally crosses his fingers that he'll get an explanation later. "Ask one of the guards?"

The urgency pops like a soap bubble. "Oh. Yeah, that would work." Calmly, she opens the door and peers around the corner at one of her startled guards. "Excuse me, but could you think _very hard_ about your dress uniform? No, harder. Really picture it, imagine putting it on…good. Focus a bit more on the trim? Okay, got it. Thank you!"

As she shuts the door on the very confused and slightly unnerved guards, Joshua shakes his head. "Incomprehensible demon stuff," he says under his breath. Then, louder, "Did you get what you need?"

She dashes for the desk, scribbling on a sheet of paper. "I need heavy silk, red and black. Thread….no, I'm good on thread. I'll need gold thread, and…" Absently, she scratches her hair with the end of the pen. "Green wouldn't look right with the red, but I'm not trying to reproduce the guards'…scratch that, only black…no, wait, just one of the red and I'll make a sash. Okay, another spool of red and one of the emerald green for the accents, the spool of gold, and I think that should do it!" A final triumphant scribble, and she surrenders the list to Joshua.

"Will you be here all afternoon?" he asks. "I want a chance to actually talk to you without your grandparents freaking out."

"Mm-hmm. I need to work out the pattern I'll be using for the embroidery."

Joshua folds the paper and slips it into a pocket. "Alright. I'll get this ordered and be back within the hour. You should be able to start working on it by tonight."


	58. He's stark raving sane

The sniveling man who oversees the details of the Warlord's household is blathering on about the preparations being made for his trip to the delta and the arrangements for the delegates' comfort and security while they are in the mountains, but he's not really listening. His attention is on the monitoring node, greedily drinking in his Champion's actions and fondly watching her tailoring dilemma. It's an amusing distraction, but something about the way she was speaking to her guard…

A cold thrill shoots down his spine as he remembers the sensation of phantom fingers in his mind, the sharp pain of something breaking and the horror of suddenly remembering two different versions of the same event and being unable to tell which was the real memory, and which was delusion. He just watched his Champion pluck a memory from her guard's mind, and suddenly he knows that she has done the same to him. Yes...the memory of his death. That was her doing, both the remembering and the fading of the details. How could he have been such a fool? He _knew_ that dreadlords had the power to twist living minds and alter memories, and hadn't she confessed her race that first day? By the stars, what kind of serpent had he embraced? Had she warped his mind even then?

Rage boils up within him, churning hot in his belly and streaking like lightning through his bones, making his skin itch as his true form strains to break free from the illusions. Control nearly shattered, his vision slips from physical back to pure magic. She deceived him! Betrayed him, as everyone else had! How could he have ever thought she would be different, and what else has she done to him? The need to sate his fury by killing something, anything, grips him in its jaws, and he only just barely prevents himself from ripping the head off the terrified little human cowering before him. He punches the wooden table with both fists, thrusting them through the surface to hide the fact that his control has slipped enough that he now sports wicked talons.

"Out of my sight!" he bellows, and the room clears out. The sniveling little man hesitates in abject terror until one of the guards grabs his arm and yanks him through the door, and the table shatters against the doorframe as he escapes.

Shaken but stoic, the guards close the door and prepare to keep anyone from interrupting. The silence inside the room unnerves them more than any furious cries or crashing sounds could have. They'd be more unnerved if they knew he was no longer in the room.

Like the wrath of an angry god made manifest, he follows the trail of magic through the Twisting Nether, ready to sink his claws into her lying face and rip the truth from her flesh. How could he have ever been so _stupid_ as to trust a demon, even a half-demon? She has the power to meddle in his mind, to shape his memories. How can he be sure that anything he thinks about her is not simply a delusion? Her flawless interrogation, the adoration and devotion, the tears at the thought of being rejected – all of these could have easily been planted in his mind, just like the memory of standing before the gates of Zin-Azshari on the back of a felhound, pledging himself to Sargeras...and at the same time, the memory of being dragged through those same gates in arcane chains by a laughing doomguard while three dreadlords whisper dark promises of pain for having prevented Tyrande's capture.

He passes through stone walls like they were curtains of smoke. As he crosses the last one separating him from the lying filth he thought he could trust, her spirit becomes clearly visible and the sight of it stops him cold. The gentle colors of her emotions are more active than when he watched her sleep, darting about like arcane fish within the swirling lavender clouds of her being. Despite his rage, he remembers the quiet wonder of his touch making her smile in her sleep. A false memory no doubt, but-

-but what if it's not?

Up, up, up through the mountain. He has to get away from her, up into the uncaring skies before he does something that cannot be undone. What if it is – but what if it's not? What if it's not, and he'd- then she would- and he'd be-

The roar that echoes back from the mountainside does little to vent his wrath; the blast of pure power that sends chunks of rock tumbling does little more. He wants to hurt her, torture her, rip the truth from her flesh and break her – he wants to hold her, bathe in her smile, surrender to the soothing touch that frees him from his pain. But most of all, he wants to be the master of his own mind again, a mind undivided by delusions and eons of torture, whole and unbroken as it hasn't been since he was her age, secure in the knowledge that he will never descend into madness, free from the siren call of insanity that sings to him like a thousand jagged knives grating against bone.

Free. The cold air caressing his wings is a freedom. It cools his rage and transmutes it to fear. The certainty that Tessa had been planting fake memories dissipates in the clean bite of the wind, irrelevant when compared to how badly he'd lost control. He'd nearly killed his Champion, and for what? The fear of her shaping him into her puppet? Harsh, mocking laughter is swept away as he flies in a direction chosen at random, physical exertion calming the churning morass of his thoughts. He has no conflicting memories of her; if the ones he has are fakes, they were done with greater skill than his long-vanished Nathrezim tormentors possessed. Yes, he has experienced worse fits and episodes since she entered his life than he had in a long time, but the constant pain and irritation had lessened as well. He wouldn't put it past his damaged psyche to try to break him just when it seemed that something _good_ might be happening to him. So what if she is making him her puppet? He's clearly in no shape to run his own life, and if her gentle hand offers mental stability along with the yoke, then where's the harm? What good is freedom if everything he is has been reduced to madness and wrath? No, he has no desire to fight the lure of her devotion, even if it is a sham. If she is a Nathrezim mastermind sent to make him an obedient servant, then so far all her manipulations have done is improve his situation.

Reveling in the feeling of control flying gives him, he wheels and rides the current of air. He can't be trusted; this incident proves it. While the sobering effects of fear have cleared his mind of rage's obscuring heat, he can admit grimly to himself that ulterior motive or not, he needs whatever she is doing to him, and needs it badly if he wants to become anything other than a mad tyrant.

A faint, buried memory cries for attention, and he lets the wind carry him while he struggles to unearth it. The same rage, the same certainty of deceit and betrayal – the order to destroy the most prized possession of…

Kael. He once turned against young Kael'thas the same way he nearly turned on his young Champion. He shivers, but not from the crisp air carrying him. Yes, he was…not stable…at the time of his death, and it appears that the effort of world conquest has only delayed that slide into madness rather than allowing him to strengthen his tenuous grip on sanity through distraction. So. The one he thought he could trust completely may be entirely untrustworthy. How should he deal with this uncertainty? His tiger-by-the-tail is indisputably clever enough to manipulate him while seeming to be a loyal servant, but given the effects he knows she has had on him, is being her puppet really so bad a fate?

Absently, he turns into the wind and fights his way back the way he came, obscurely pleased with the level of effort required and the familiar burn of physical exertion. Either she has been completely honest with him – even if there are certain things she has not mentioned and he has not asked about – or her sweet adoration has been a lie. But if that's so, then she has also made Joshua her puppet, and to what purpose? He had a meaningless office job, what ambitions could she have been fulfilling as his 'tame demon'? No, he will trust his young Champion since he doesn't trust himself, and hope that she will find a way to mend his fragmented sanity before he turns on her and dooms himself with her destruction. Ah, but how can he encourage that which they have both avoided speaking about? He is all too familiar with his temper; she must believe that he would turn on her if he knew what she was doing, and hasn't he just proven her right? No, if he wants her to keep doing what needs to be done, she cannot suspect that he knows, or she will stop doing it out of fear. Furthermore, since he can think of numerous ways her skills can be applied for his benefit, how can he condone their use without giving away that he knows they have been used on him?

With a single goal to focus on, his wounded mind ceases attacking itself and he almost smiles as he slips into the Twisting Nether and follows his path back to his stronghold. He did demand that she report on her abilities; if he simply acts as though he knew all along that she could pluck thoughts from a man's mind, and still does not show any hesitation to let her _oil his horns_, she will fear to question his knowledge lest it bring his attention to what she hasn't been telling him she's been doing. Yes, her own fear of discovery will keep her from questioning him, and…

Grimly, he steps back into the room whose table lies shattered against the door and dons the illusion of Warlord Raphael. No, he doesn't need to worry about encouraging Tessa to soothe his inflamed psyche and keep him from sliding into madness. All he has to do is give her the opportunity, and she will leap at the chance to serve him in that way. After all, didn't he command her to do what needs to be done?

The guards jump as he opens the door, leaning awkwardly over the wreckage of the table to do so. "Get someone to get this mess cleaned up," he snaps. "Have a new table brought in here, and fetch my sniveling servant back. We're not through yet."

"Yes, my Lord," they chorus, and he shuts the door.

As he seats himself and waits for his orders to be carried out, he chuckles darkly. This is yet more proof that he needs her, puppet or not. Look how far he's come in a few short weeks! He's gone from killing rage to calm without even wounding anyone.


	59. His own worst enemy

His evening routine brings him no peace from the grating irritation that buzzes through his thoughts, both at himself and at the simpering worms that call themselves his government. For a while, the casual chatter between Tessa and her uncle had distracted him, but his Champion has been silent for some time now and peeking through the monitoring node only shows her prodding at something he can't see. He'd thought she would have already leaped at the chance to practice on her own, but his nighttime workout ends without her moving from her spot on the couch. As he showers and prepares to wrestle with sleep, the nagging irritation changes to disappointment that builds until he looks at his bed and remembers the fluttering, fragile hope caused by having Tessa asleep next to him, unaware or unafraid of how close he has come to killing her in the past.

How close he came to killing her today.

He wants to hold her, to greedily wallow in her concern and devotion, to pretend for just a moment that he is someone else – but he does not deserve such comforts, not after today's little episode. How can he face her, knowing that he'd doubted her so completely? On the other hand, maybe that very incident is precisely why he _should_ go down there. She can't be expected to repair his damaged mind if he gives her no opportunity to do so, and shouldn't he reaffirm her devotion to keep his paranoia at bay? Besides, if he were to suddenly avoid her company, she would suspect something and he has no desire to explain himself in this matter.

He goes.

* * *

When he steps out into her room, she does not so much as twitch, all her attention on whatever it is that she's working on. Disappointment bites deeply into him and he watches in hurt silence as she continues to ignore him. After several minutes, she makes a final gesture and the illusion of complex patterns traced in red lines on a black background leaps into visibility. This is what she's been doing, then? Designing her dress uniform? Some of the disappointment melts away, but he still craves her adoration, needs her smile to ease the pain of living.

"You have not availed yourself of your hour in the gym." He stifles a wince; that came out hard and accusing where he was aiming for mild concern.

"I wanted to get started on my dress uniform," she says apologetically, yawning as she turns towards him. "I can practice later, but if I don't get this done…"

He frowns. "You are tired. You should be asleep."

She gives him a guilty look. "I know, but I got caught up in tweaking the design – does it look okay so far?"

The frown doesn't budge.

After a few seconds, she wilts. "I'm sorry, Kal'shan. I'll go to bed."

Dejected, she stands and half-stumbles towards her bedroom, but he pulls her roughly against him before she can take more than a half a dozen steps. Unfair it might be, but he did not come here just to watch her go without claiming some comfort from her. Sweetly obedient to his unspoken demands, she nestles against him and some of his cold annoyance thaws.

___Oh, my Champion, would you still let me hold you if you knew how close I came to... _ He does not finish the thought, but he already knows that her answer would be yes. Her place is at his side.

"Grab your cable," he commands, voice harsh from the emotions choking him.

Reluctantly, he releases her just long enough for her to comply, then pulls her down onto the couch next to him. She doesn't protest, just sips electricity and gazes at him with limpid trust in her faintly-glowing eyes. No, she shouldn't trust him! He can't be trusted, he-

The thoughts are forcibly cut off, and to distract himself, he traces the curl of one horn with his fingertips. The contented mewling sound she utters makes him almost smile, and he continues the soothing motion until she is quite limp in his embrace, breathing slow and steady.

"'m gonna fall asleep 'f you keep doing that," she murmurs.

He considers it.

"While we are visiting the delta region, I will likely need you to demonstrate that you are a demon," he says, removing his hand from her horn and trying to ignore her involuntary sigh of disappointment. "Fire will be easy enough, and I doubt we will need to demonstrate whatever dangers your blood may hold, but 'gazing into the hearts of men'…" He senses her tiredness vanish in the sudden tension of her body. "I expect an opportunity for you to rummage through someone's mind will present itself at some point; I do not entirely trust that the chancellor will not attempt something." She is silent, mulling over the implications as he knew she would, but another thought strikes him. "You said that as half-Nathrezim, if our bodies are killed, they will return to the seeds from which they grew. How long does that process take? If-" he stops abruptly, unable to utter the words.

"It depends on a number of things," she says calmly. "If I were killed here, in this room, I would be able to return within six hours. If I were killed in the delta, it might take me a day or so to re-form and return to you."

The thought that he could have killed her was bad enough; the thought that he could have had to face her disappointment, her rejection after he did so… He can feel the fear rise and try to break him, only to be met by the tidal force of his rage. A soft sound of distress alerts him to the fact that he is holding his Champion uncomfortably tight, and he forces himself to loosen his grip. The instant he does, she twists around to put her hands on his horns, and he surrenders himself to her gentle touch.

"I know you're afraid you'll kill me," she says gently. "Uncle Josh is, too. But I'm not, because even if you do, I'll come back to you."

"Why…?" He isn't sure how to end that question, so he doesn't.

"Because you're my Kal'shan," comes the whispered reply, somehow answering all the questions that hadn't been voiced.

The blades that had been circling his mind and preventing her from entering it shudder and retract, but before she can do anything, his mental tendril reaches for her mind and she extends one in return. It is promptly pulled behind his defenses as his hold on her tightens again, making her nestle back against him. She projects reassurance and devotion while he silently pleads for patience, the rest of his emotions a complex, throbbing tangle. She dares not act with his mind embracing her presence so tightly, but she can look, and what she sees is not comforting. His sense of responsibility bleeds from new wounds, and the cage of self-loathing that had contained his fear is a pile of jagged rubble. The twisted shape of his fear has been impaled on a barbed, crystalline spike of…she's not sure what that is, exactly. Clearly, he had some kind of breakdown and improvised a coping mechanism again. One of the walls holding his memories at bay has a gaping hole smashed in it – by the sense of responsibility, by the looks of it – but nothing unhealthy seems to be leaking from that particular batch of memories.

She wishes she knew what happened so she could fix it properly, but that thought makes her flinch in sudden guilt. His mind doesn't function the same as anything she's ever seen – has she been inadvertently causing _more_ damage with her attempts to fix things? As if to prove the point, the sense of responsibility clomps over to the shards of self-loathing and absorbs a handful of them as though it were feeding itself. Maybe she should cool it for a while and let him get used to the repairs she's already made. If he's used to improvising his own repairs, having things work right will only throw him off-balance. She'll just concentrate on cleaning up some of the things buried too deeply for him to notice any changes, and maintain the current state of things in the more active sections. Come to think of it, it probably wouldn't hurt to start documenting things. She'll probably never get a chance to present her work – if she ever finishes it – to the academy, but if she does ever return to Nathrezene, she'd like to be able to publish this. Get some recognition for her efforts, and maybe make a name for herself beyond being the failure half-breed child of her absent father.

"I have kept you from your rest long enough," he says suddenly, sounding much more calm than she would have expected, given the kind of damage he'd inflicted on himself. "Sleep. Continue working on your uniform, when you are not with me. I have rescheduled our bonding session for the afternoon of Week's Dusk, since we will be leaving for the delta the morning of Week's Dawn." Absently, his fingers caress her horns. "I am considering making that change permanent, considering how many times we have had to reschedule it," he adds with mild amusement.

The fear writhes on its barbed spike.

_Joshua__ was __right._ The words burn suddenly between them with acidic shame and bitter apology, cutting with a razor edge of hope and fear. His hands tighten around her, dulled talons biting bluntly into her flesh speaking eloquently of how distraught he is. _I__'__m __not __stable. __If__ I__ should__ do__ anything__ to__ you-_ The thought is cut off so suddenly that she's not sure if he intended for her to hear it, or not. It doesn't matter, in any case. He knows that she heard it and waits in trembling anticipation for her reaction.

_I know. I don't care. You're my Kal'shan._

He shudders away from the devotion and forgiveness that bleed from those words, or perhaps from the fact that she has chosen to serve him despite knowing-

She finds herself suddenly ejected from his mind, the blade-storm circling.

"Sleep," he snarls. "I will not have my tame demon yawning in public."

"Good night, Kal'shan," she says, unbothered by his apparent anger.

Awkwardly, she hugs him and he releases her, watching silently as she goes into her bedroom, nagged by the feeling that this isn't how he wants the moment to end, but utterly at a loss as to what he does want.


	60. Moving right along

The next three days pass without incident. She spends the mornings making sure his rusted machinery is oiled and delving into the cache of memories his responsibility-construct broke into, piecing broken and fragmented recollections back into some kind of stained, damaged whole. After the morning meetings is their time sparring in the gym, and he is grimly silent as they fight, mind still on the tasks of the day. After that, he dismisses her to her quarters where she works frantically to get her dress uniform completed, and only reluctantly puts the cloth and thread aside to sleep. She does not question or comment on his distant silence; after everything he's been through, the potentially accidental admission of weakness would be a horrible blow to him and she's more than content with just the fact that he's not avoiding her.

It's not until the evening of the fourth day that she actually finishes her dress uniform and can take advantage of the extra hour that has been allotted to her in the gym. She tries on the uniform first, of course, and admires the sleek black silk with delicate red patterns traced over every inch, the emerald-green highlights and the glint of gold trim, the undeniably alien red sash embroidered with gold runes proclaiming her status to anyone who can read Nathrezim. Satisfied, she changes into her preferred workout clothes and steps into the Twisting Nether.

The gym feels empty without his presence to fill it. She warms up and watches herself carefully in the mirrors, comparing her motions to the memory of his, repeating individual motions until they feel more natural, beating the lessons into her muscles through repetition. Just before her hour is up, she puts her practice glaives away and looks around, feeling foolish even as she reassures herself that she is alone. A frantic beating of her wings follows, and for a second her heart soars thinking that she's lifting off – but no, it's just her hopeful enthusiasm. She's subconsciously rising to hoof-tip. Disappointed, she stops flapping and sighs at her reflection.

She feels his arms around her before she sees him in the mirror, and twists around until she can press her cheek shamelessly against the warm, firm plane of his chest. His fingers caress her hair, then her horns, in silent reassurance and she can't quite hate that she's so pathetic in the face of that physical contact.

"You truly can't fly?" Bafflement softens the harsh incredulity of the half-question.

"Most Nathrezim can't," she murmurs, disappointment blunted by the joy of his touch. "Too heavy. Those who can are very powerful, respected and feared for the ability."

He is silent, digesting this information. Did any of his so-called loyal dreadlords ever fly? He can't remember without digging into things best left undisturbed, but it doesn't matter. He recalls all too clearly how the tears ran down her face as she confessed her fear that he would reject her, and her conviction that she was a failure for not living up to what was expected of her. The ability to fly would be exceptionally desirable to one who had been smaller and weaker for her entire life, certainly. No wonder she threw herself into the art of the warglaive so enthusiastically, and yet…she had passed up the chance to strengthen herself more in order to complete the uniform he had not quite commanded her to make. She was putting his wishes before her own desires, even knowing that he was…not stable. He holds her tighter, grateful for her devotion even though he is certain he does not deserve it.

"When you are stronger, I will teach you." The little 'oh' she utters, and the way she trembles in his arms, make him think suddenly of seeing her beam at him as they soar together over – but no. She's just a child. "Until then-" he releases her and gently grasps one wing, guiding it through the correct motion. "_This_ is the stroke you should practice."

Blushing furiously, she nods.

"Sleep now," he says firmly. "I am meeting with the head delegate in the morning, and I want you well-rested for that. I think he's hiding something, and I would have you listen closely to his thoughts as I question him."

"Yes, my Kal'shan," she says crisply, straightening up as though about to stand at attention.

He turns to go, then hesitates as if something had just occurred to him. The phrasing had taken him a while to work out – how to best fish for information without revealing his ignorance. "Have you been spending the mornings listening to _my_ thoughts?" he asks with seemingly mild curiosity.

She shakes her head. "Your mind is defended by whirling blades. I wouldn't be able to get through that if I tried; no one would."

Interesting. "This is not usually the case, then?" He frowns when she shakes her head again. "How does one normally defend one's mind?"

"Lots of ways," she says promptly.

He pauses, thinking about the Illidari dreadlords. "These blades – would they stop an outright attack, or merely discourage a more stealthy attempt?"

She looks shocked. "I'm _not_ going to attack you to find out!"

The chiding tone makes him smile briefly. "Perhaps tomorrow, then, you can tell me about the ways Nathrezim minds can be defended. Tonight-"

"I'm going," she interrupts with a sheepish look, then steps forward and hugs him. "Good night, Kal'shan."

Reflexively, his arms go around her. "Sleep well, my Champion."

He forces himself to release her and watches as she fades into the Twisting Nether, frowning absently at the empty air where she had been before summoning his blades.


	61. The meeting did not go well

_Waste __of __time._ He snarls, one blade lashing out with crushing force towards the slighter form of his Champion, causing her to retreat a step. _Useless__ worm._ A second strike; she retreats again, unable to meet the full force of his blow. _I __know __he__'__s__ hiding__ something._ Blow by blow, step by step, he chases her around the gym while his anger slowly erodes the control he holds over his vision until suddenly, her lilac presence vanishes from his rage-blinded sight and he forces his temper back under control. The blank wall facing him is a puzzle until her soft voice calls his name from behind him. Of course. With nowhere else to go, she slipped into the Twisting Nether. Clever, his young Champion. With an irritated sigh, he banishes his weapons and gestures her to the corner where the stripped wire waits. She gives him a curious look but obeys, and he paces impatiently while she drinks. When she makes a motion to resume their sparring session, he angrily counters it with a sharp gesture.

"No," he snaps. "That will only feed the anger." Taloned hands clench and unclench as if they could wring the truth from the delegate's neck. When she holds her silence, he realizes he has been braced for her reaction – and that he did, in fact, speak out loud. The instinct to feel humiliation from having exposed his weakness is trampled by the fear of losing control next week, when this frail freedom will be denied him.

She calmly moves close enough that, should he choose, he can pull her into an embrace. "What should I do instead?" she asks, her tone diffident but her expression challenging him to protest. He considers it – he's still angry enough that a good argument is tempting indeed, and how _dare_ this slip of a girl challenge _him?_ – but she looks fearlessly at him and says, "I am your Champion. Tell me how I can serve you."

_I__ can__'__t __do __any __of __that __if __you__ don__'__t __let __me,_ his memory of her says. She _meant_ that, he realizes. Despite her youth, she was serious about serving him – and she can be trusted to not take advantage of any opening his weakness offers.

"What did you detect from the head delegate?" he demands, a corner of his seething rage satisfied by the way she straightens to attention.

"When he said he would need to let the chancellor know of your arrival so that the necessary arrangements could be made, there was an echo," she says. "I couldn't hear what he was hiding, but..."

When she does not continue, he pounces on her hesitation. "You couldn't hear what he was hiding, but…?"

His Champion takes a deep breath. "…but I could probably find it if you gave me permission to actually enter his mind."

The implications – and potential complications – flood him and absently, he pulls her against him while he sorts them out. She can enter another's mind and seek out knowledge, but she has not done so because _he_ commands her. Would she be detected if she did enter the head delegate's mind? Is this ability of hers a weapon he can command her to use with impunity, or something best held in reserve? She did not enter the delegate's mind because he had not given her an order to do so, but he did order her to do what needed to be done with regards to him. Has she been going into his mind? Do the blades she mentioned protect him at all times, or only when his anger flares? What about when he's relaxed? Too many questions, not enough information.

"Take your hour now," he growls threateningly. "Tonight, I will expect you to be in your rooms and we will discuss what you can do."

"Yes, my Kal'shan," she says, unbothered by the implied threat.

Rather than release her immediately, he holds her tighter as though physically clinging to the memory of her silent assurance: _I __know. __I __don__'__t __care.__ You__'__re __my __Kal__'__shan._ He cannot afford to doubt her, to allow her to be hurt by his wrath. Regardless of his fears, he must trust his Champion to be exactly what she seems to be until such time as he is in no danger of succumbing to madness.

The fact that she's nestled endearingly against him, even knowing what he could do to her, doesn't hurt.

She watches him stride angrily towards the door, waits until it closes behind him before moving her wings slowly in the motion he'd shown her yesterday. The memory of his hand makes her blush. Resolutely, she picks up her glaives and moves back into the center of the large, empty room, determined to make the most of her hour.

Although their conversation on Week's Dawn had detoured swiftly into the turbulent waters of death and resurrection, he had made a point of letting her know that he knew at least some of what she was capable of. Then, in a baffling display of calm, he'd announced that their bonding session would be in the afternoon of Week's Dusk. Surely, he had to have suspected something, but if he had, wouldn't he have reacted somehow? Was this another trap? As much as it terrifies her to contemplate being caught with her mental fingers in his metaphoric cookie jar, she knows she will still take every opportunity to keep doing what needs to be done to keep his mind working as best it can. She doubts this is what he had in mind when he gave her that command, and has no illusions that such an excuse would cause him to spare her life if he ever finds out. The thought of his trust in her being so utterly shattered, of not being able to serve him, makes tears prick at her eyes and she forces herself to concentrate on the motion of the blades.

_I won't let that happen._

No, she'll go slow and careful, not making any new repairs for a while. Cleaning the toxic emotions out of his memories will be more than enough to occupy her for months. At least he seemed to be taking her seriously now. She'd be content to have him think of her as a child forever as long as he still let her _do_ things for him.

At the end of her hour she puts the blades away and awkwardly flaps her wings the way he showed her. Even weak as she is and going slow, she can feel the power in the stroke. A few more repetitions to get used to the movement, and she puts her illusions back on and heads out. She's almost all the way to the door before it hits her: she won't be able to practice next week. _He_ won't be able to-

_No wonder he's so worked up._

Deep in thought, she walks back to her rooms, completely ignoring the guard left behind to escort her.


	62. Two steps forward, one step back

Strangely, as the afternoon wears into evening, she finds herself less and less worried about the upcoming discussion of what she can do. She busies herself prepping illusions to demonstrate the basics of defense and infiltration, since he won't have had the benefit of a formal education the way she did. Reviewing like this, preparing to teach her star such a basic life skill, makes the fear of discovery fade under the satisfaction of serving him. When he finally steps into the room, she is nearly beside herself with anticipatory joy, eager to show him the methods of defense. Her excitement startles him, disrupting the irritated anger that had been making him scowl, and at her beckoning gesture he sits beside her on the couch.

"What's this?" he asks suspiciously, one taloned finger pointing at the mazelike structure hanging in the air before him.

"Standard model of a Nathrezim mind, undefended," she says promptly.

He stares. Nothing in the unfamiliar shapes looks remotely like a mind to him. "How does it differ from a human mind?"

She glances over her shoulder, staring hard at the door for several seconds, then gestures to the right of the model and a slightly more simple, organic-looking, sparser construct is sketched fuzzily in. "That's the guard's mind," she says. "You can tell here, and here, and over here-" various sections of both models light up briefly as she gestures to them "-that the Nathrezim mind evolved long ago to take advantage of the inherent abilities sentient minds share, where those abilities atrophied in the human mind."

Actually, he can't. All he sees is more or less complex versions of the same incomprehensible sections of maze. "I see," he says doubtfully. "How do you protect your mind, my Champion?"

If armor plates could be made of lace, they might look like some of the things that now shroud the Nathrezim model. Others look like complex machinery or sections of jagged teeth that interlock. The whole rigmarole covers the model so completely that almost none of it can be seen.

"It's more complex than it really needs to be," she says somewhat sheepishly, "especially out here, but my cousins used to bully me a lot. They realized our grandmother wouldn't punish them for it, and my father's position was good incentive for them to make sure they could win it from me when I came of age, and they started trying to break me down early, so..." She shrugs. "I got good at defense. Most Nathrezim just use lattices for everyday things, especially if they're using Control Techniques a lot."

"Lattices?"

Most of the strange armor vanishes, leaving only the lacy-looking things covering every opening. "Lattices are like wards in that _you_ can reach through them easily, but a foreign touch is amplified and easy to detect, and the whole thing is easy to damage an intruder with. While wards are easily seen through and can be made to respond differently to different people, however, lattices are static and opaque. Any intruder has to thread them like a maze. It doesn't stop a direct attack, of course, but good lattices make it too annoying to try to sneak in."

"And the blades you say protect my mind?" He keeps his voice to a neutral growl to hide the vaguely-helpless confusion he feels at this entire subject.

The lace armor vanishes, and a whirlwind of what look like razor-sharp metal shards surrounds the model. The structures can be seen between the flashing shapes, but the thought of reaching through that to get to them…

"I see." Satisfaction robs the words of their edge. Seeing how his mind is protected warms a corner of his heart with perverse pride that here, at least, he managed to successfully defeat all of his enemies despite not having been given any knowledge in this particular field. Then he frowns, remembering his questions from earlier. "The blades cannot be protecting my mind at all times, unless you are allowing yourself to be hurt when you touch-"

She shakes her head, and the rage that had been rising checks itself. "I can only touch your defenses when the blades retreat – when you're not so angry or irritated."

_I __can __keep__ her __out._ The revelation that he can maintain the privacy of his own mind at any time if he can learn to control these blades goes a long way towards easing his fears of her slipping inside to learn all of his secrets while he remains unaware of the intrusion. Not only that, but the blades are not his only defense? The rage sputters out, freeing up the mental resources he typically has to devote to keeping it contained. The whirlwind of blades around the model slows, and the blades vanish. Are they formed of his rage, then? He has no doubt that while master of the Black Temple, his constant struggle with irritation and anger would have protected his mind from any enterprising dreadlord, whether he was awake or asleep, but the idea that he has other defenses as well surprises and intrigues him.

"I have...other defenses?"

Thick, toothy slabs cover the Nathrezim model haphazardly. He frowns again; he may not know what the openings in the model are or what they are for, but he can see that if these rough, thorny things are his defenses, they are not fully protecting him. The rage rises again, and he absently sends it flowing through its usual channels, faintly aware that the turbulent emotion is swirling around the outside his mind. No doubt the blades are protecting his mind again, and a part of him is darkly pleased that his rage at least serves a constructive purpose, but it's not enough to distract him.

"Why do they not protect me fully?" he snarls, feeling as though his mind has betrayed him in some new way.

"I don't know," she says calmly. "I'd guess that since you weren't trained, you created defenses that you can still work around while they're up. They're barriers rather than gates – either they're up or they're down, but they don't open."

He is silent a long time, the blades whirling around him hiding his thoughts from her.

"I was not trained," he says slowly. "What would it take to train me?"

She winces at the implication of where his thoughts have been. "Standard training on Control Techniques is three years, Advanced is another two, and Specialized is two more." Her hands curl into fists against her thighs. "I left before I could finish my education; I'm three weeks short of being certified in Advanced."

_In other words, even if I asked, she could not teach me as much as I wish to know._ With great effort, he keeps his temper in check. This isn't her fault; she should not suffer his rage at this new blow Fate has dealt him. He reminds himself forcibly that there are no dreadlords on this world save him and his Champion. There is no threat to the security of his mind. He ruled the Black Temple with no training in these "Control Techniques", and whether they had ulterior motives or not, the dreadlords under his command were unable to use their _precious_ techniques to control him. No, he did just fine without utilizing whatever demon abilities being half-Nathrezim has granted him. He does not need to learn how to use them in order to keep his mind secure.

That's what his Champion is for.

"Can you teach me how to create gates rather than barricades, and how to open them at will?"

She jumps slightly. "I can do better than that, Kal'shan. I can create them for you and show you how to put them into place."

"And you can show me how to operate them?" He makes it a challenge rather than a question, daring her to say no at her own risk.

She looks mildly offended. "Of _course_."

He stares thoughtfully at the model of his mismatched defenses, then opens his mouth to ask her if she could sneak inside them and closes it again, question unuttered. Whether she can or can't, to ask would only bring attention to what _else_ she can do, and he does not wish to spook her. He will have to find another way to ask.

"You have been inside my mind," he says slowly, not looking at her, dulled claws digging into his palms. "From what you could see, why would the Illidari dreadlords not have attempted to use Control Techniques on me when the blades were retracted?"

The Nathrezim and human models open up into what looks like the first floor of some freakish citadel constructed out of alien machinery. The human model is considerably messier, with half-constructed or abandoned pieces and debris littering the corners, but no doubt the machinery would still identifiable if he were trained in such things. Then a third model appears, and it looks like the machinery has been wrecked, abandoned to the elements for a century or three, reconstructed from the wreckage, abandoned again, set on fire, wrecked a second time, and rebuilt using the twisted, ruined fragments that remain atop the rusty, charred debris that covers the half-rotted plane passing for the floor. He can feel the edges of panic nibble at him in subconscious recognition even before she says, "That's what your mind looks like."

Is he really so broken? But of course he is – didn't _they_ see to that? Didn't _she_ do her best to ensure it? Despair tugs at him. What arrogant fool's quest has he been on, thinking that he could ever regain his sanity when his mind looks like _that?_ By the stars, what kind of monster _was_ he, not driving her away for her own safety? How could he let her waste her life in misguided service to him?

Her hand on his wrist jolts him out of the dark, destructive spiral his thoughts were taking, and he remembers her silent assurance that she knows, and doesn't care. Of course she knows how broken he is; she probably knows better than he does thanks to her training. Can she fix him? The claustrophobia savages him, reaffirming his decision to not let her know he suspects anything. If he does not know how close he is to freedom, if he fools himself into giving up all hope, it cannot be wrenched from him when she cannot undo ten thousand years of damage. The fear curdling in his belly speaks eloquently of what he might do to her in a fit of despairing, panicked rage if she fails him in this way. No, he has to trust that she can, and have faith that she has faith in herself.

"Even if one of them got through your defenses while you were asleep," she says gently, "he wouldn't have been able to do anything constructive. You have to know what something is and what it does before you can change how it works."

He turns and gathers her into his arms, eyes closed, face buried in her hair, unable to face the ruined mess that is his mind. Worthy servant that she is, the hand that is not trapped between them goes to his horns and slowly, slowly, the motion soothes him enough that he can lower his pathetic barricades and welcome her into the devastated realm of his mind.

___Why were you not dismayed to see this the first time we linked? _Shame at her seeing how much of a broken mess he is colors his silent words

_I learned about you in my History of Ancient Victories and Defeats class. You're called the Doom of the First Azeroth Assault because you turned against the Legion after you were supposed to have been a brain-broken puppet and gone crazy on your allies, causing chaos by turning on them before dying of your mental wounds or being killed. _She pauses. _They didn't record your name, though, so almost no one knows that the one who took out Tichondrius and became Lord of Outland is the same one who doomed the first attempt to conquer Azeroth. That's probably why there were any Nathrezim foolish enough to think they could control you secretly if they pretended to join you._

Her devotion warms him like sunlight on his wings, admiration sparkling from her presence in his mind. Somehow, even damaged as he is, she still thinks he is awe-inspiring and worthy of respect. Knowing that she still holds that misplaced hero-worship for him eases some of his pain. ___No wonder you have been so patient with me._

The hand trapped between them twists until she can lay it flat against his chest. _I told you, you don't have to hide from me. _

There is no response he cares to make to that, so he simply holds her and lets her devotion soothe him.

"When do you want your new defenses?" she asks quietly, nudging him out of the pleasant haze he'd fallen into.

Something in her diffident tone makes him think she's been waiting for this opportunity. Well, if she knew how broken he was already, and is really so devoted to him, might she not have prepared a set of defenses for him already – just in case?

"You have them ready now, don't you?"

"...yes."

_Do __it,_ he commands silently.

Her presence melds with his as it did when they were playing with the lightning. Guided by her wordless thoughts, he dismantles the crude barricades that had been defending his mind. The fear of being defenseless is thwarted as new gates and barricades are erected as soon as each old one comes down, and her gentle presence whispers to him the secret of opening or closing each one. As much as he thought this would make him feel helpless and pathetic, when the last of his new defenses are in place, he feels...secure. The satisfaction she's radiating doesn't hurt, either.

"Were my defenses worrying you, my Champion?" he murmurs, amused at how pleased she is with her work.

She ducks her head against his chest. _Yes,_ she says inside his mind, brazenly unapologetic despite her shy reaction.

The subject of her potentially infiltrating a human mind at his command is a can of worms he has no desire to deal with tonight. "Sleep. Tomorrow morning will be spent overseeing preparations for our trip. I want you packed and ready to go before our bonding session so that you get enough time to rest properly between dinner with your grandparents and leaving at dawn on Week's Dawn."

Her excitement sparkles in his mind as she withdraws. "Yes, Kal'shan!"

* * *

He lies awake for a long time, fidgeting with the strange constructs that now guard his mind from intrusion, wondering if they will obey her as easily as they do him. If he has made it easier for her to do whatever it is that she does to him, rather than more difficult. After seeing the horrendous devastation that passes for his mind, however, he swallows the shame and fear. He has to trust her. He needs what she can do, if she can do anything at all to help rebuild his shattered psyche. If he's even worth the effort of putting him back together.

Irritably, he rolls out of bed and pads over to the scarred and scored section of stone wall, but stops before he can vent his frustration on it. In two days, he will not have the luxury of this release. With a growl, he flings himself back into bed and tries not to brood about how much the trip to the delta is going to erode the little patience he has. Will his Champion turn away from him in horror if he loses control and kills a hapless flunky with his bare hands?

A bark of quiet laughter echoes in the still room. Knowing her, she'll probably think he's that much more amazing for such a display of strength. Imagining her look of admiration eases some of the tension knotting inside him, and eventually, he sleeps.


	63. And your voice was all I heard

He's lucid enough to know that he's still asleep, that he didn't actually wake up to the scent of damp earth in his nostrils. He knows that this is a memory, a dream, a nightmare. He hasn't been returned to his temporary cell. Sheets, not roots, bind his arms and legs. None of that stops him from swallowing a whimper when the green-gold shape of his brother enters what passed for his field of vision back when his demonic eyes were still new. Of all the memories his subconscious could torment him with, this is one of the worst. Briefly, he considers playing along, expending some of his anger at the perfect target the memory of his twin makes, but it would be like handling hot coals with blistered hands. He _hurts_, and rage only makes the hurt worse. He's tired of hurting. The memory will play whether he acts out his part or not, so he tries to ignore it…but he can't.

"Back for more, brother?" he hears himself smarm.

Pompously, the memory of his twin announces, "There's been a trial."

"Why should I care?"

"Because it was yours."

Repetition has robbed the words of none of their edge. His dream self sneers, "So what did this _trial_ decide?" but he's too busy bleeding at the reminder that he wasn't even given the courtesy of being there when his fate was decided, and the stinging uncertainty that he'd never know which way his twin had argued, or how vehemently.

"You're to be imprisoned until either the demons come back, or you stop being a danger to everyone around you."

This time, he does play his role. "What did I do?" he begs the memory of Malfurion, anguished at the possibility that he could have hurt someone he cared about in one of his fits of insanity, pleading for the answer he knows he won't get. The raw, uncertain panic distracts him from the knowledge of where this memory leads, and the next words hit him with all of their original force.

"You're a _monster_, Illidan!"

He wants to howl in wordless denial at being so cruelly rejected by his brother, his _twin,_ his other half, his only flesh and blood. Silently, his mind cries out for some kind of relief, some scrap of pity in the universe, something to reassure him and refute that accusation. He almost doesn't see it, except that the slender, void-dark form steps defiantly between his dream self and the glow of his twin's soul.

"He's _not_ a monster!" the image of his Champion declares, hurling the words at the memory of Malfurion in a fearless challenge, daring him to do his worst. The lines of her body speak of her willingness to fight in his defense until no breath remains in her – and then resurrect and come back to keep fighting. The break from the way this nightmare usually goes is startling, enough so that he finds himself awake, tangled in the bedclothes.

In all the fuss over how she'd known that being called a monster genuinely _hurt_, somehow he'd overlooked the fact that his young Champion had been ready to strike down, in his defense, the people who had been _kind_ to her. People that he would be meeting tonight. People who he could not just terrify into obedience if his temper started slipping, not if he wished to continue bathing in his Champion's adoration. Even if she did not turn from him for that, he would not be able to bring himself to look her in the eyes. Already the irritation crawls through his thoughts like scuttling vermin he cannot reach to squash. Once, the simple act of spending a few hours in the company of other people would not have been a gauntlet of psychological torture, something to be endured or avoided. Hadn't he spent hours discussing magic with young Kael'thas, or the history of his people, or the current state of the world? Hadn't he spent long nights reminiscing with Lady Vashj about the cities that no longer were, and listening to how the naga had been born from the drowned ruins of Zin'Azshari? What had gone wrong?

Groaning, he presses the heels of his hands to his eye sockets, once again feeling the lines of embroidery that cover the silk. This had always been the worst part; coming back to himself after a period of insanity and wondering what he'd done, trying to discover how much damage had been inflicted on his reputation and if anything could be salvaged. A chuckle whispers through the dark room. How fortunate for him that he chose to invade the mountains when he did; if he had not, he might have been too far gone for his Champion to fix even this much. There is no doubt in his mind that he is significantly more stable than he had been a month ago, not when he is able to objectively look at those recent memories in the same way that he views the memories of Outland, when his stability was nearly nonexistent. For that matter, even the fact that he can examine some of those memories without being overcome by regret and rage for what had transpired back then hints that he is actually _regaining_ his sanity rather than just holding onto what little of it he has left. Maybe…

He takes a deep breath and stands, wings spread slightly in an unconscious gesture of challenge at odds with his unclothed state. Maybe he _can_ do this after all. He will have the benefit of the _good__ mood_ that follows having his horns oiled; that should at least negate the anxiety he's already staving off, both about tomorrow's trip to the delta and the minefield of tonight's social interaction. With a bit of effort, he puts the whole thing out of his mind for the time being. It will be hours before he has to face that particular trial, and worrying about it will only make his Champion's job that much harder.

_And,_ whispers a corner of his mind, _maybe __she__'__ll __see__ what__'__s __wrong, __and __fix __it._

* * *

Author's note: Both Malfurion's and Illidan's sides of that event are available upon request. Just drop me a PM or request them through a signed review, and I'll send them your way in a PM or review reply.


	64. The calm before the storm

Author's note: Pretty much settled in after the move, so I should be able to start writing again. As a reminder, stuff years in the future from TBTT can be found on my writing journal at moonshadows (dot) dreamwidth (dot) org.

* * *

The door slams shut behind him and he stalks to his usual chair, fury radiating from him in waves that crash against her lattices. She doesn't bother to wonder what happened to make him so angry as she uncaps the bottle of oil and pours some into the cloth. Unlike the other times she's seen him angry, he doesn't seem inclined to physically lash out with his rage. It seems to be more tightly controlled, somehow, although at the cost of increasing the intensity of the emotion. She supposes it's progress, but whether he's controlling his rage or being blinded by it, she still can't do a thing until he's relaxed enough to pull the blades back in. Slowly, she runs the oiled cloth up the heavy curves of his horns, admiring the soft luster they've acquired and letting the gentle emotion waft over him. The knowledge that she can see his defenses hangs thickly between them. She has armed his mind, and no matter how much he trusts her, he will be watching for any intrusion. He won't be able to help himself; centuries of abuse have made him hyper-sensitive with regards to anyone having any power over him.

She sings.

Not the usual lullaby or any silly musical fluff, no – she skips straight to the song that she'd used to soothe him gently to sleep last week, and sings to him of self-empowerment and inevitable victory, hoping that the memory of the last time he'd heard the song will relax him. She could kick herself for not setting up something to broadcast reassurance from inside his mind when she had the chance, but the blades start to slow as she finishes the first verse. By the end of the song, they've withdrawn and she can touch one of the warded openings in his defenses. It lets her pass, as it was designed to do, and she takes a good look around. The responsibility construct whines with relief from where it stands guard before the pen that holds his rage, and she pets it as she passes. The elastic ties are still working as intended, and some of the broken ends seem to be trying to warp into a configuration that makes the motion of breaking and reconnecting smoother. It's exactly the kind of unorthodox adaptation she's coming to expect from him: instead of the ends fusing together so that they don't break anymore, they're becoming hinges so that the motion is something deliberate and intended.

As she's applying oil to the rusted and corroded mental machinery, she notices something unusual. A single tower of broken struts and pistons stands untouched, the area immediately around it clear of debris, but the surrounding structures are cut and charred, and the flesh of his mind is horribly scratched and bloody. Strange as it is, she can't help but feel that he's trying to not harm this particular part of himself and instead, is taking the self-destructive urge out on everything around it. The cuts get anesthetic foam, of course, and she can hear him sigh as the pain is dulled. She starts humming the song she'd sung earlier so that the vibrations resonating through his horns distract and soothe him further.

Curious as to what this particular structure is, she slips into the artistic visualization and discovers herself in a small glade, the trees sickly and damaged as though they'd been hacked at. In the center, an elegant gazebo of white marble stands in stained and fractured glory. The domed roof has been shattered, the pieces mixed with the remains of what must have been curved benches and a chipped, round table. One of the four pillars lies in several pieces, while the other three look distinctly abused. In healthier times, it must have been a beautiful place to spend time with friends.

_Is he nervous about meeting Grandma and Grandpa? s_he wonders. _Well, whatever this is, he's trying not to damage it, so fixing it shouldn't unbalance things. Hopefully. Maybe I'll just fix it half-way…_

The mental marble is much lighter than actual stone would be, and the pillar is easy to re-assemble with the help of some sealant. The benches are trickier, and they still look distinctly battered with only the larger chunks glued together. The table is fine as it is, but the pieces of the dome are hopelessly indistinguishable from the smaller fragments of table, benches, and pillars. It's nowhere near completely repaired, but it should be enough to ease his anxiety without arousing too much suspicion. Hastily, she switches back and finishes applying oil to his mental machinery. A cursory check shows nothing major that needs attention; what cuts there are, are dabbed with anesthetic, but overall the usual superficial wounding has decreased since the elastic ties started keeping things from staying broken. She pets the sense of responsibility again on her way out.

"I'm going to go get ready, okay?" she says softly, hands leaving his horns.

He frowns briefly, eyes still closed, forehead wrinkling above his blindfold, but then he nods. She caps the bottle of oil and retreats to her bedroom, where it and the cloth are tossed into the travel bag open on her bed. Clothes are quickly stripped off and added to the rest of the wardrobe explosion littering the floor, and she dons her illusions before reaching for the outfit she's picked out. It's as concealing as it is conservative: a heavy, dark blue dress with a high neck, full skirts, and sleeves that button snugly at the wrist. Joshua's mother gave it to her once, and wearing it is the best way she knows to mollify the older woman without saying a word. Her hair doesn't braid neatly with its artificial curls, but she secures it at the nape of her neck with a thick navy ribbon tied in a bow.

Beneath his seemingly relaxed posture, his mind stirs restlessly. She has numbed him enough that any self-destructive thought more strenuous than vague worry seems like too much effort, although he knows he could tear away this pleasant haze in a heartbeat should he so choose. Lazily, his attention drifts to the monitoring node where his Champion is tying a ribbon around her hair. After last week's scare, she was wise to make him aware of what she was doing. Guilt twitches somewhere below his heart; she should not have to tiptoe around him like this, although he is grateful that she does. She's far too good to be tied to someone like him. He does not deserve her. He-

A knock on the door interrupts his train of thought, and absently, he calls for Joshua to enter. Still floating in a pleasant haze, he watches through the monitoring node as his Champion emerges and stops dead at the sight of her uncle. Something doesn't seem right about that and, mildly annoyed, he opens what passes for his eyes. The thought that occurs to him first is that his Champion looks fetching in long skirts, even if she is disguised as human. On the heels of that are the usual irritation at the need for her to hide what she is, and the amendment that she would hardly be able to fight effectively in a gown like that. Only after those thoughts does it occur to him that she's giving him an uncertain look, and that Joshua looks as though he were facing certain death.

He frowns. Joshua pales.

"Your illusions," Tessa says quietly.

Oh. Easily fixed, and a moment later Joshua relaxes visibly. There is an impulse to feel shame or anger at himself for this slip, but somehow all he feels is lazy satisfaction that his servant can be trusted to see his true form and still remain obedient. Bolstered by the _good mood_ that still blankets his mind, he shoves all doubt and anxiety behind a wall and focuses on the way his Champion looks at him in adoration as he stands with a smile, and the fearful submission on her uncle's face.

He gestures to the door. "Shall we go?"


	65. Curse his Mars in Leo

Joshua opens the door and is met four steps in by his mother, who drags him into a hug with a cry of "Joshie!" She releases him only to capture Tessa in an equally enthusiastic embrace. The half-demon is released to greet her adoptive grandfather the same way, leaving the older woman face to face with the Warlord as the door closes behind him, a dozen armed guards standing vigilantly outside.

"No hug for you," she snaps, arms crossed challengingly. As an afterthought, she adds, "Butcher." When he doesn't react, she presses her lips together and nods grimly. "Let's get one thing straight. You are a guest in my house, and you will abide by my rules. If you don't like it, you'll have to kill me."

That penetrates his pleasant haze enough to get a raised eyebrow. "What makes you think I won't?"

Wordlessly, the older woman jerks her head at Tessa, who is chatting happily with Joshua and his father. "You kill me, you'll hurt her. I don't think you want to do that," she half-threatens in a low voice.

They stare at each other for a long moment, defiant blue eyes and cold brown ones, and then he lets out a quiet bark of amusement. "I can see where Joshua gets it," he says, side-stepping the whole issue.

"What do you mean?" she asks warily. Behind her, the others have turned their attention to the potentially explosive confrontation.

The Warlord smiles, habit making the expression a cruel one. "Joshua has proven useful by being willing to speak his mind to me, bravely saying what he thinks I need to hear when others quail."

All eyes turn to Joshua, who flushes.

"What did you _say_, Uncle Josh?" Tessa asks curiously.

"I, uh…" Josh glances frantically at his Lord, unsure as to what he's allowed to say.

"He has been teaching me the proper way to care for one's tame demon."

Joshua starts to breathe a sigh of relief at being let off the hook, but chokes when he sees the look on his mother's face.

"You can start by not keeping her cooped up all day," she says accusingly. One thin finger fearlessly jabs the Warlord in the chest to punctuate her words.

"She can leave any time she chooses," he says calmly, struggling to keep the first buzzing stings of irritation from shredding his _good mood_. "I am not holding her against her will, nor have I ever done so." _Even if I thought I had been doing just that._

"You keep her from her family," Evie tries again.

He opens his mouth to say _She didn't seem very upset about that_, but closes it again, momentarily lost in the wonder of having realized that it would be a bad thing to say _before_ the words left his lips.

"You're not making sure she gets good, home-cooked meals, now are you?" the older woman continues, taking his silence as a victory.

"She doesn't need to eat," he says shortly, feeling the irritation grow stronger at the accusation, and the last shreds of _good mood_ evaporating.

"Of course she does," Evie says dismissively, still jabbing his chest aggressively. "She needs good, healthy food, and quality time with her family, and to not be trapped in some posh cage all day, and…"

Tessa glances worriedly at her star as her grandmother berates him. Irritation swarms all over his mind, and it's not going to be long before it rouses his rage. A step to the side, and she's close enough to slip one hand into his. He promptly grips it tightly enough to make her inhale sharply. Oddly enough, he seems to have heard the quiet sound. It jolts him out of the dangerous spiral of irritation and anger as his sense of responsibility roars, sending everything else scurrying for cover.

"Enough," he snarls. "She is _my_ demon, and I will treat her however I choose!" He pauses, grip loosening just enough for his thumb to stroke her skin apologetically. It seems to calm him somewhat. "You are not the only one who cares for her," he hisses through clenched teeth, "and if I ever make her unhappy, the only one I will be answerable to for that is her." He closes his eyes, once more gripping her hand tightly as he struggles to not just hold her close as he so dearly wants to, feeling her mold herself to him and stroking her hair until his temper subsides. Joshua is known and trusted – at least as far as being discreet about Tessa goes – but despite being his parents and her adopted grandparents, the other two are strangers to him, and he will _not_ display weakness in front of them. Feeling his Champion's other hand on his weakens that resolve and then, inexplicably, strengthens it. She is _his_ Champion, loyal to him. Her place is at his side, which is where she is now, standing with him in the face of her grandmother. She _wants_ to serve him. His touch makes her happy.

He squares his shoulders and forces his eyes open to discover that her grandmother is watching him. Once their eyes meet, she gives him a grim nod and then turns to her son as though nothing had happened.

"Joshie, help your father set the table. Tessa, show our guest the washroom and get cleaned up for dinner." And with that, she turns and bustles into the kitchen.

Joshua looks apologetic. "Uh, dad, this is the Warlord. My Lord, this is my father, Donald. That was my mother, Evelyn. Welcome to our home…?"

Awkward nods are exchanged. When Tessa tugs his hand with a quiet "This way…", and leads the Warlord out of the room, Joshua's father lets out the breath he'd been holding.

"Thought your mother was going to give me a heart attack," he says casually, clapping his son on the shoulder. "Well, let's get going before we get yelled at."

* * *

Once out of earshot, he pulls her to his chest and holds her tightly, the usual comfort dampened by the slight awkwardness of their respective disguises. He says nothing, secure in the knowledge that she will not ask, simply breathing in the scent of whatever hair product it is that she uses, letting her unspoken devotion soothe his irritation and shore up his crumbling composure.

"_If I ever make you unhappy,"_ he growls in the language of his birth, fear and annoyance transmuting easily into anger at himself, _"I command you to make me aware of that fact as quickly as possible, by any means necessary. Is that understood?"_

She writhes in his grasp until she can place both hands on his cheeks and meet his eyes with a serious, grounded expression that reminds him forcibly of Tyrande. _"I promise,"_ she says in the same language, and her expression shifts to radiant joy and trust that he feels he could never deserve.

He pulls her back against his chest for a few more breaths, then abruptly lets go and she leads him to the washroom as though nothing had interrupted them.

* * *

"So how's that conquering the world going?" Donald asks casually as they settle around the table.

Tessa glances at her star, but he doesn't seem offended and she relaxes slightly.

"The ones who fled the capitol of the hill region were…dismayed…to find my troops waiting for them," he answers, sounding pleased – if slightly sinister.

"Big bully," Evie mutters as she ladles generous helpings of noodles, meat, and mixed vegetables onto everyone's plates.

"Evie," her husband chides, and she sniffs disapprovingly.

"Well, he is, forcing Grandma's little girl to do those horrible things."

"I did no such thing," he says evenly, nudging bits of green and orange away from the meat and gravy covering wide, flat noodles.

"Don't you lie to me, mister," the older woman snaps, pointing imperiously with a serving spoon. "And eat your vegetables. They're good for you."

The half-demon stiffens slightly as a few blades peek out of her star's mind, but they retreat after a moment and she catches the look Joshua and his father exchange. They're just as afraid of a full confrontation as she is. "He didn't lie, Grandma," she ventures in an attempt to head things off before he gets too riled up.

"Tessa, sweetling, don't try to protect him. You told me yourself that you killed people and destroyed buildings."

Despite a brief flare of dark amusement at the word 'protect', she can see the scuttling flecks of irritation in his mind and hear frustration in his voice as he says, "I did not force her to do those things. She offered, freely and of her own volition, to assist me in that way."

Evie looks ready to fight that assertion, but one glance at her granddaughter's closed expression and she shuts her mouth with a snap and takes her seat. For several minutes there is silence at the table as everyone takes refuge in the act of eating. The Warlord's silent aura of menace fades as no further attacks are presented, and he even seems mildly amused as Joshua is teasingly interrogated about his secretary and the possibility of her being interested in him, marriage, and providing grandchildren. Once he seems relaxed, Donald clears his throat.

"I'm curious, my Lord. Tessa said that her job is to do things for you that no one else can do, but she didn't specify what those are. Maybe you could shed some light on that…?"

His borrowed face goes blank with surprise, and she's not sure if the spike of panic she's feeling is hers, or his. "She…is my tame demon," he says unsteadily, as if he hopes that will be answer enough.

"That better not be a fancy way of saying concubine," Evie days darkly.

She's ready to roll her eyes at her grandmother's usual melodrama when the full bladestorm erupts from its cage and obscures her view of his mind. Afraid now, she takes his hand without caring what it might look like, but he gently removes her hand from his and places it on the table as he stands up slowly, each motion deliberate. His expression is one of forced calm, more of a blank mask hiding the fury she knows seethes behind the illusions.

"I find that I am no longer hungry," he says coldly. He turns to her and says in a gentler voice, "Enjoy what remains of your visit. I will expect you to be in your rooms by the tenth hour, as usual."

"I didn't give you permission to leave the table, mister!" her grandmother snaps, shooting to her feet with both hands on the table.

"I am leaving your home. Your rules no longer apply. I will _not_ abide by them if it means I must sit here and listen to you insinuate such things about Tessa!" Although his tone had started crisp and chilly, the last words are a heated snarl.

She jerks in surprise, and she's not the only one. Joshua alone seems unsurprised that the Warlord is angrily defending _her_ rather than himself. Both her grandparents are floored by the unexpected end to that declaration, but Evie recovers quickly.

"Coward," the older woman says disdainfully.

He had been turning to leave, but now her turns back, eyes narrowed. "What did you say?"

"I said you're a coward. You can bully whole regions and kill as many people as you like, but you run from one old woman saying something you don't like. That makes you a coward in my book."

Joshua covers his face. Donald looks mortified…or terrified. Tessa frantically tries to think of a way to calm him down, not caring in the slightest about what her adoptive family will think.

"You dare…?" The words hiss out from between his teeth. "I come into your home as a guest, offer no hostility to you or yours, and yet you insult me and go out of your way to try my patience. I abide by the rules of your house and state my intent to leave rather than retaliate, and for giving you the respect I am no longer sure you deserve, you call me a coward?"

"You're running from a fight. No – you're running from your responsibility. Don't like what I said? Prove me wrong. Defend her, don't just throw a hissy fit and walk away. If you leave this table, you will be a coward because you would not stand up for yourself, or for her."

The silence is thick and brittle. No one moves, and Tessa suspects that Joshua and his father are trying equally hard to not breathe, or breathe quietly lest the slightest sound shatter the silence like glass, irrationally certain that the shards of it will cut them all to ribbons.

"Of all the things I have ever been accused of, justly or falsely," he says slowly, menace dripping from each word, "improper sexual conduct has never been one of them." He sits, somehow making the act a direct challenge. "What my demon chooses to do in her own time is none of your concern, nor are any affairs I may or may or may not have. That being said, I do not appreciate the insinuation that I would treat my demon with such a lack of respect as to take advantage of her in that way. Her virtue is safe." He smiles cruelly while she blushes furiously. "No matter what you may think of me, you _will_ accept that and not insinuate such things again. You may slander me as much as you like, but if you do not give your granddaughter the courtesy of not assuming that she is engaging in illicit activities…well, I would hate to have to make her choose between her Lord and her family."

She takes his hand again, face still burning, and this time he does not remove it. Despite her embarrassment, she still manages to look defiantly around the table. Joshua and Donald exchange another look, this one _I told you so_, and Evie seems torn between affront and respect. The blades no longer swarm around her star's mind, but quiver as though about to launch themselves in a deadly volley, and she makes a note to contemplate that later. For now, he seems much more in control, and that's all she cares about.

"Finish your vegetables," Evie says as she seats herself calmly. "No dessert until your plate is clean."

Without another word, he busies himself doing just that.


End file.
